


No More, No Less

by Eireann



Category: Star Trek: Enterprise
Genre: Drama, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-27
Updated: 2013-04-16
Packaged: 2017-12-06 16:57:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 19
Words: 33,146
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/737991
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Eireann/pseuds/Eireann
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The ruins of a long-vanished civilisation appear to be empty.  Appearances  can be deceptive...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. 1

**Author's Note:**

> Star Trek is the property of Paramount. No infringement intended, no profit made.

“Fascinatin’ stuff, isn’t it?”

Trip made the remark as he pushed aside a swag of low-hanging greenery.  Not receiving any reply, he glanced over his shoulder and grinned.

For once Malcolm should have been free to enjoy being a member of a landing party on a world where they were almost 100% sure that nothing was going to attack them.  The ship’s scanners had indicated that these ruins were free of any life signs larger than a domestic Earth cat, and the jungle all around it was quiet, simmering in the heat and humidity.

Having discovered evidence of a long-lost civilization whose inhabitants had presumably died out (intensive scans revealed no sign of any species likely to have developed sufficiently to build such structures), _Enterprise_ had settled into orbit to give its various science teams free run of the place for a few days.  The bridge officers hadn't had a chance to stretch their legs for a while, so Trip and Malcolm had volunteered to bring Hoshi down to check the place out for inscriptions.  They’d gotten lucky almost immediately, discovering a small obelisk smothered with panels, many containing close-set hieroglyphs as well as stylised pictures; the carvings were badly weathered, of course, but still fairly decipherable if you knew the language.  Hoshi had uttered something that sounded suspiciously like a squeal of joy and settled down to study it, carefully photographing it from various angles to get the best light across the lettering.  Malcolm, in his best Security Officer mode, had prowled around the area right up till Hoshi had noticed him and suggested he quit hovering and go see what else there was of interest to be found.

The lieutenant plainly did not like being accused of ‘hovering’.  Forbearing for once (somewhat surprisingly) to inform his junior officer that what he was actually doing was his _job_ , he had cast a last glower around the courtyard as though personally warning it not to misbehave in his absence, and walked off with Trip to explore the ruins on either side of the long thoroughfare that ran in a roughly southerly direction from the building where they’d found the obelisk.

The houses that ran at either side had once been grand, to judge by their remains.  They looked as though they’d been attacked, not just deserted.  Weathered scars suggested that the demolition had been accomplished by more than just wind and weather.  Several of these had borne decorated panels too, but chunks had been hacked out of them long ago; in an outburst of insane fury, to judge by how deeply the chisels had been driven.

The large arch that Trip was now standing underneath beckoned.  It was partially blocked by swathes of a vigorous creeper slathered in purple flowers, but its size and grandeur suggested that something worth seeing might be beyond it.  The stone slabs underfoot had been hollowed by many passing feet.

Just in front of it, however, were the remains of what looked as though it had once been a fountain, carved out of blocks of red stone.  It was worn and crumbled, but there was some rusted iron piping half-exposed in the middle of it, gaping uselessly over a broken stone bowl.  Trip had passed it by with hardly a glance, but Malcolm stopped and was staring at it.

“What’s up, Malcolm?”

A less perceptive man might have missed the very slight flinch.

“Nothing.”  Reed turned away from the fountain and followed him under the arch, pushing past the greenery in the same way.  He eyed the stonework too, with something different in his usual coolly analytical stare, though he didn’t speak.  Now unsmiling, Tucker watched thoughtfully as his friend walked through what had been a short, covered passage and into the middle of a huge round space that now opened up around them.

It was evidently a place where crowds had gathered.  On every side crumbling tiers of stone seating rose up towards the amber sky atop a wall some three meters in height.  A separated part looked as though it had once provided a more exclusive seating area; part of the walls that had probably supported a ceiling still remained, though the ceiling itself had rotted away and fallen long ago.

Trip gave a short, sharp whistle, testing the acoustics.  They were still good.  He thought that when it was new, virtually every sound made down here would have carried clearly to the topmost benches. 

A sudden movement drew his gaze back to Malcolm, who had spun around at the unexpected noise and was now staring at him.

“What did you do that for?”  His extreme agitation was underlined by the fact that he didn’t even say ‘sir’ or ‘Commander’.  On duty, the lieutenant was a stickler for the rules.

“Just testin’ the acoustics.  Whoever built this knew what they were doin’.  I wonder what they did in here.  Plays, or...”

“I know what they did in here.”  Reed’s statement fell like an axe, cutting his speculations short.  “Seen many plays where they make sure the actors can’t escape, have you?”

Tucker’s gaze widened in sudden horror.  Now the significance of that high wall became obvious.  “Oh, my God.  It’s an arena.”

Malcolm’s mouth twisted strangely.  “Exactly.”  He walked over to face the ‘executive box’, and stopped facing it.  His back and shoulders were rigid.  For a long moment he was perfectly still, and then he yelled, _“Exearru thirx!”_ and spun on his heel, dropping into a fighting crouch. 

“Malcolm!”  Trip rushed towards him, but pulled up when the lieutenant glared at him, gray eyes wide and fixed, with no recognition in them at all.  “Malcolm, it’s me!”

“Put up a fight, will you?” hissed the other man.  “Don’t think I won’t kill you if you don’t, it’s all the same to me.  Your gods won’t welcome a coward, that’s all!”

“I don’t want to fight you!  Malcolm, this is me!  _Trip!”_

Reed advanced with short, almost dancing steps, poised on the balls of his feet.  His right hand was held in front of him as though he thought he was holding a knife, close to his body but ready to stab forward with it in an instant.  To all appearances the hand was completely empty, but his face was full of deadly, mocking purpose.

“You’re in the wrong place if you don’t want a fight, mate.  Should have thought of that before you let them take you alive.  Now, you’ve got two options: give them the show they want and I’ll finish you quickly, or you can stand there and pretend you and I have met before, and I’ll slit your gizzard and use your guts for a skipping rope.  Last time I did that, I got as far as twenty before the owner stopped screaming.  And _they_ loved it.”   A jerk of his head towards the deserted benches.  “The bad news for you is, you look a lot stronger than he did.  So I suggest you don’t find out how many I can get to with yours.”

Trip backed up, staring at him.  He wasn’t afraid of being stabbed with a non-existent knife, but he had a very healthy respect for the lieutenant’s ability to kill him with no weapon at all.  He was so horrified and bewildered by this stunning turn of events that for the moment he couldn’t think how to respond, but as Malcolm lost patience and lunged at him, the intention plain and ugly on his face, his hand dropped automatically to the phase pistol clipped at his hip.  In the bitterest of ironies, he’d argued against the necessity of wearing one; it had been Malcolm, in his habitual I’m-Head-of-Security-so-I-give-the-orders-on-that-score mode, who’d insisted.

He only just had time to draw it.  It fired into Reed’s chest at point-blank range, hurling him backwards.


	2. Chapter 2

“I am completely at a loss to explain it, Captain.”  Phlox stared at the sets of readings above the bio-bed.  “In ordinary terms, it is not physically possible.  Mister Reed’s brain patterns have somehow fundamentally changed.”

“And that means...” prompted Archer.  Actually he had a fair idea already of what it meant, but he wanted to be absolutely sure.

The Denobulan shrugged.  His blue eyes were utterly bewildered.  “Basically, he has become someone else.”

They stared down at the armory officer, who was once more occupying a position that was dismayingly familiar to him – prone on a bed in Sickbay. 

Now, however, he was not complaining with his usual vehemence about the treatment he required, nor protesting that actually he was ‘fine’.  He wasn’t even giving voice to his displeasure about being here _again_.

He was just – glaring.

After hearing Trip’s account when the away team had returned to the ship, Phlox had taken the precaution of putting his most troublesome patient in restraints before reviving him.  It was proved in very short order that he had been wise to do so.  As soon as Malcolm regained consciousness it was obvious that he neither recognized them nor understood where he was, and as soon as he realized that he was immobilized he began fighting against it, using language that was disturbingly larded with abuse and threats.  The most truly disconcerting part of this was that so many of the expressions he used weren’t in English, even allowing for the colorful and sometime arcane invective employed in the Royal Navy.

Trip had insisted on being present.  It was clear that the chief engineer had been badly shaken, both by the incident and by the necessity of having to shoot his friend and junior officer, even though the phase pistol had only been set on stun.  He’d wanted to see for himself that all was now well, but it manifestly wasn’t.  As soon as the lieutenant’s gaze had fallen on him, he became the target for a hail of insults.

His presence was achieving nothing except increasing his own pain and worry and aggravating the patient.  Phlox gently asked him to leave, assuring him he’d be kept updated with all developments.

He hadn’t wanted to comply, but Captain Archer had reinforced the request.  “We’ll keep you posted, Trip,” he’d said reassuringly.  “We’ve got to get him to talk to us, and I don’t think he’ll do that while you’re here.”

Not without many a backward glance, Tucker had obeyed.  Doubtless he had sought out Hoshi, who would likewise be extremely eager for news, but that was an item of knowledge that was strictly unofficial.  It was therefore not something that needed to be discussed.

Relegating that thought to the back of his mind, at least for the present, the captain turned back again to the man – supposedly his Head of Tactical – who lay, now silent, on the bed, watching him malignantly.

“Well, now that you’ve got all that off your chest, would you mind talking to us civilly?” he asked mildly, though there was a note in it that said his mildness was no more inexhaustible than his patience.

“Take these off me and let me go – _aheshle!_ ”  From the way the word was spat out, he could guess it wasn’t a compliment.

He considered the situation for a moment longer, and then he silently walked out of Sickbay.

*               *               *

He called Hoshi into his Ready Room so that they could be private.

He didn’t want to embarrass her, but the situation called for frankness.  He didn’t have any more room for maneuvering.

She’d heard some of the story from Trip on the way up, so she knew what the situation was.  At a guess, he’d also had had time to give her the latest update. 

She was pale.  Her eyes were enormous.  She came into the room and adopted the appropriate parade rest posture, waiting for him to speak. 

With a smile that did its best to be reassuring, he pointed her to a chair.  “At ease, Ensign.”

“Sir.”  She sat down, but her hands were clasped nervously in her lap.

“Hoshi, we need your help.”  He spoke very gently.  “You know what happened this morning with Malcolm.”

“Sir,” she said again.  Then, after a moment, “I didn’t actually see it.   I heard Trip shout, and – when I got there, Lieutenant Reed was unconscious.”

They’d already gone over this once during the short debriefing, but he had to be absolutely sure what had happened.  “They left you on your own?”

“Yes, sir.”  A very small voice.  “I asked them to.  Lieutenant Reed didn’t want to, but I – I told him to stop hovering.”  She added, in a rush, “They didn’t go far.  I could hear them talking.”

He looked down at the PADD that held the official report from the landing party, resting on the desk top.

“I think it’s time we put all the cards on the table, Hoshi.  I know about you and Malcolm.”  He held up one hand, forestalling whatever she might have said.  “This isn’t about pointing fingers or blaming anyone.  Between you, me, and these four walls, I don’t particularly agree with the anti-frat regulations, and for that reason I’ve turned a blind eye to a few things.  As long as you and he get along, and the relationship doesn’t affect your work, as far as I’m concerned it’s not happening.  If for any reason it did start affecting your duties I’d have to get involved, but right now it seems to be working out, and that’s not what I want to talk to you about.”

Color washed into her face and out again as he spoke, but when she answered her voice was steady.

“How can I help, sir?”

“Well, I guess Trip already told you that Malcolm’s conscious and talking.  But right now he’s not making much sense, and he’s using some really strange words.  I’ll take a guess and say a lot of them aren’t very polite, but that’s  where you might be able to help us.”

“You want me to try to talk to him?”

“I’d say it’s pretty likely he’ll talk to you.  He’s got plenty to say for himself, even if we don’t know what it all means.”

“He’s speaking a _foreign language?_ ”  Her doubt was obvious, and understandable.  Linguistics wasn’t one of Malcolm’s strengths.  The suggestion that he was now speaking one without ever being taught it did stretch credulity to the breaking point.

“Not exactly.  A lot of it’s ordinary English, but it’s … like he comes from someplace that uses lots of slang words.  Insults, that sort of thing.  Or that’s what it sounds like.  He’s not exactly being cooperative right now.  I guess I’m hoping that seeing you might … might trigger something.  Recognition.  Feeling.  Just something we might be able to use to understand what’s happened to him.”

“I’ll do whatever I can.”  She stood up, evidently anxious to make a start, and he stood with her. 

“I’m sure of it, Ensign.”

They walked down to Sickbay together, both wrapped in their anxious thoughts.

“Just one thing,” he said suddenly, just as they reached the double doors.  “I want you to remember: this may _look_ like Malcolm, but according to Phlox, it _isn’t._   So don’t trust him.  I get the feeling that whoever he is, he’s not the trustworthy type.  And don’t….” he searched for the right words, “don’t hold anything he says or does against Malcolm afterwards.”

“You sound like you believe there will be an ‘afterwards’ as far as he’s concerned.” she said quietly.

He touched her shoulder in the attempt at consolation, though it felt hollow at best.  “If there’s anything we can do to make one, we will.”


	3. Chapter 3

The normal routine of Sickbay had to go on.  Phlox was attending to his menagerie, apparently oblivious to the continued existence of the patient still securely bound to the bio-bed.  He looked up with his usual dauntless smile as the captain and Hoshi entered, though it was noticeable that the smile’s presence was brief and its wattage unusually low.

“Ah, Ensign.  Come to see if you can persuade our friend to cooperate, have you?”

“I’ll do my best.”

With the captain at her side and the doctor watching attentively, she walked towards the bio-bed.

Malcolm – she still thought of him as Malcolm, though she reminded herself fiercely that this wasn’t her lover at all – was lying still, though not relaxed.  He’d been staring at the ceiling when they came in, though at the sound of her voice his head had jerked sideways to look at her.  Now an ugly smile twisted his mouth.

“You’re bringing me a _sztherai_ , eh?”  His gaze raked her body without recognition.  “Well, I know what to do with her.  Though unless you untie me, she’ll have to do all the work.  You can watch, if you like.  I don’t care.”

_It’s not Malcolm looking at me like this and saying these things._   She blinked back a sudden stinging sensation in her eyes and made herself concentrate on the sound of his voice; especially on that strange word he’d used, doubtless one of many the security cameras in Sickbay would have recorded.

Something about the pronunciation was different.  Wrong.  As if –

She made herself lay a hand on his chest, next to the restraint, and did her best to coo, reflecting that if this really were Malcolm, in a private situation, he’d explode with mirth at her acting skills.

“Of course I want you.  But the captain here won’t let me, unless you cooperate.”

But this wasn’t Malcolm.  Her acting skills might be negligible, but this man didn’t even realize she _was_ acting. 

The hating gray eyes switched to Captain Archer.  “Very good, _aheshle._ She’s beautiful, isn’t she?  I bet you’ve enjoyed her yourself.”

“Of course I have.  She’s amazing.”  The captain answered without a flicker.  Evidently his acting skills were of a far higher caliber.  “But like she said, there’s a price attached if _you_ want her.”

A humorless grin appeared.  “You do enjoy these games of yours.  All right, then.  Ask your _tierzeh_ questions, and if I feel like answering them…”

“Wait a minute.”  Hoshi darted aside to Phlox, and asked him quietly for the loan of a portable scanner.  He looked surprised, but handed her one at once; it was the work of a moment for her to modify the parameters for what she wanted.  As soon as it was done she hurried back to the bio-bed, but she paused to whisper in the captain’s ear, _“Try to make him angry.”_

His eyebrows rose – the prisoner was already angry enough – but he nodded infinitesimally.

“Tell me your name.”

“My _name?_ ” the other man drawled sardonically.  “They call me ‘Death’ in the arena.”

There was a moment’s pause.  The temperature in Sickbay seemed to plunge.

“My officers tell me they didn’t see anyone else – in the arena,” said Archer carefully.

“Not now, no.  But they’re still there.  I can see them, and hear them, when I want to.”  He laughed.  “Thousands of them, there were.  Hundreds of thousands, down the years.  All coming to watch Death at work.  And I obliged.  My pleasure.”  His eyes moved to Hoshi.  “And in between, there were the women.  Nobles and slaves, it didn’t matter to me.  I made a _sztherai_ of each and every one of them, and they loved it.  Just the way you will.”

_Not in this life or the next._ She said nothing, however, but kept her eyes on the scanner readout.

“I guess ‘Death’ isn’t your real name.”  Archer still spoke quite mildly.  He undoubtedly hadn’t forgotten her request for provocation, but while he was getting information it would obviously be counter-productive to antagonize their captive.

“It wasn’t the one I was given when I was conceived.”

The captain folded his arms.  “If I’m having a conversation with someone, I prefer to call him by name.  His real name.”

“Ah.  We’re having a conversation.  Is that what you call it?  I thought it was somewhere between interrogation and bribery.”

“You’re making it that way.  I’m willing to talk to you man to man, but you have to admit the way you’ve behaved up to now doesn’t give me grounds for confidence.  You tried to kill my chief engineer;ever since you woke up here you’ve been aggressive and abusive.  And by your own account you’re not exactly the safest guy to be around.”

“I’d be more inclined to converse if I wasn’t trussed up like a _taljak._ ”

Archer studied him carefully.  “Would you give me your parole?”

Hoshi tensed, but it was unnecessary; for all his inborn optimism, the captain had shed much of his naiveté since the start of the voyage.  A few moments later the prisoner was released from the bio-bed’s restraints and seated on the edge of it, but his wrists were now in electronic cuff restraints and Ensign Williams from Security was by the door with a phase pistol in his hand and unequivocal orders to shoot his superior officer with it immediately if he made one hostile move.

It appeared that the memory of being shot with one by Trip was still vivid.  Their captive glared at the gun, but sat still.  “I take it you think my parole’s worthless,” he growled.

“You haven’t proved what it’s worth yet.  And I have my crew’s safety to think of.”  The captain met his angry stare steadily.  “I want to know more about who you are.  You still haven’t told me your real name.” 

The gray eyes dipped for a moment.  “You can call me Gyarven.”

“So that’s your name?”

“It’s one of them.”

“And your people lived down there on that planet.”

“ _I_ lived down there on that planet.”  A feral smile.  “It wasn’t intentional, but I found it had its compensations.”

“So you weren’t born there.”

“No.  I came here long ago.  I was … travelling.  Exploring.”  He glanced slyly at the captain, who’d mentioned in his earlier attempts to set up a dialogue that _Enterprise_ was a ship of exploration.   “My ship had developed a fault; I had no choice but to land.  The inhabitants found me.  Let’s say they found me … interesting.  We established a mutually beneficial relationship.  A symbiosis, you might say.”

“I see.”  Archer paused.  “And what happened to the other half of this ‘symbiosis’?”

A shrug.  “They died.”

“ _All_ of them?  What killed them?”

Now it was Gyarven’s turn to pause.  “They took a risk.”

“What risk?”

The prisoner yawned.  “Excuse me, Captain Archer, but I’m not feeling too well.  I’d like to lie down for a while.  Preferably somewhere more comfortable.  And if you’d just leave me the _sztherai_ , as we agreed, I’d enjoy using her.  And we can continue this interesting ‘conversation’ another time.”

“You’ll answer me one more question before you go anywhere or do anything.  _What happened to my officer?”_

The gray eyes opened wide.  “Your –? Oh, the host!  Oh, I’m afraid I’ll need this body from now on.  It’s really far too appropriate for my purposes to give up.”

“I need my Armory Officer and I want him back.”  The captain’s voice had gone hard.  “I don’t give a damn about what your ‘purposes’ are.  And I’ll do whatever I have to do to get him back.”

Gyarven laughed gently.  “I was right about you from the start.  You have no idea what you’re dealing with and no idea how to get what you want.  Take a piece of friendly advice.  Give up while one officer’s all you’ve lost.  If you don’t believe me, take a look around down there.  I didn’t bother warning them, not that they’d have listened to me anyway.  Now I want the woman and a comfortable bed.”

“You can have the bed, mister.  But on this ship I don’t hand out my crew as toys.  She’s out of your league, so just get over it.”

The other man stood up sharply, so that Ensign Williams by the door leveled the phase pistol at him warningly.  “We had an agreement!”

“Sure we did.  You were to give me your full cooperation.  And till you give me my officer back and get the hell off my ship, and most importantly of all get Ensign Sato’s free and full consent to sharing a bed with you, you haven’t cooperated nearly enough.”  He gestured to the guard.  “Take him to the brig, and I want a double guard on him at all times.”

That certainly constituted provocation.  The scanner had its work cut out to cope with the outburst that followed. 

Archer bore it for a couple of minutes, seemingly unperturbed by the incandescent rage; then he raised an eyebrow in Hoshi’s direction that asked _Got what you need?_

She nodded.  She had more than enough, and she was deeply disturbed by the proximity of a man who looked and sounded like the one she loved but who was behaving in a way that was antithetical to everything she’d ever seen in him.  She’d done her best to stay professional, to concentrate on the work she had to do and to remember that this _wasn’t_ Malcolm, but she was getting to the limit of what she could bear.

“I’ve heard enough.  Get him out of here,” he ordered tersely.

The phase pistol wasn’t taking ‘no’ for an answer.  It was to Ensign Williams’ credit that he met the blazing eyes of his former senior officer without flinching, and forced him to walk quietly from the room at gunpoint – maintaining a safe distance between them as he did so.

“Well,” said the captain, as the door closed behind the two men.  “I hope you got something we can work with out of that, Hoshi.”

“I think so, sir.”  She tried to keep the quaver out of her voice.

“Hey.  You did really well.  I know how difficult this must be for you.”  He put steadying hands on her shoulders.  “Take twenty minutes to get a cup of coffee or whatever, and we’ll meet in my Ready Room for your report.  I’ll get T'Pol involved as well; she needs to know the situation between you and Malcolm, but I’ll tell her I sanction it.  Okay?”

“I think – I think Trip would like to be involved too.”  She was too upset even to realize she’d referred to him by his nickname while on duty.

“I concur.”  Doctor Phlox had remained an interested, if silent, spectator thus far.  “I believe that it would be best for Commander Tucker’s peace of mind to be, as I believe the expression is, ‘one of the party.’”

“Well.  You’re probably right.  And I may need to consult you, too, Doc, so stand by.”

The Denobulan nodded.  “I’ll be here going over the readings.  Just call me if you think there’s anything I can help  with.”


	4. Chapter 4

“How is he, Cap’n?”

Fear mingled with hope on Trip Tucker’s face as he stepped into the Ready Room.

Archer looked up at him, wishing he had better news to impart, but shook his head.  “I’m sorry, Trip.  It’s not looking too good right now.”

The hope flickered and died.  “But did you find – did you find out _anythin’_ about what happened to him?”

“Well.  We got him to talk, as opposed to yelling, and we found out a few things.  But I’d have to find out a hell of a lot more before I could make any guesses as to what happened.”

T'Pol joined them at that moment.  The two officers sat quietly while he replayed the recording of the interview, or at least the parts where anything useful was being said.

“The fact that the alien is incorporeal makes verifying its story difficult,” said T'Pol, when he’d finished.  “I suggest our best course of action is to begin carrying out a detailed scan of the planet’s surface.  If this – being – arrived on a ship, as he claims, it should still be here.  We should be able to pick up its location and analyze its age at least, and depending on its condition we might be able to retrieve some information from it regarding his species and origin.  We might even be able to carry out some kind of restoration that would allow him to leave and resume his voyage.  That might be sufficient to persuade him, or it, to release Mister Reed.”

“That’s a great idea.  As soon as we’re through here I want you to get on it,” said the captain, nodding, though he privately reserved judgment on how amenable Gyarven might prove to abandoning the man he referred to so blithely as ‘the host.’  “Now, Hoshi’s going to be here in a minute, and before she gets here I want you to know something that might have a bearing on the situation.”

As quickly as possible he told them that Hoshi and Malcolm were an item.  T'Pol accepted the news thoughtfully, though without comment, but Trip grinned.

“I could’a told you that, Cap’n.”

“So why didn’t you?” demanded Archer, somewhat indignantly.

“Nothin’ you needed to know about.  Malcolm would never let it affect his work, and neither would Hoshi.  Tellin’ you would just be givin’ you a worry you didn’t need.”  He cocked an eyebrow.  “Mind me askin’ how you did find out?”

“Captain’s privilege.”  He grinned smugly.  It was nice to think there were some things he could surprise his old friend with.

At that moment the door chime sounded.

“Come in, Hoshi.”

The ensign entered immediately to find herself the object of three pairs of interested eyes.  It wouldn’t take her much effort to determine that she’d been the object of the discussion prior to her arrival, and she pinkened, but once again held herself steadily at parade rest till given permission to take a seat.

“Right.  Give us whatever you’ve been able to find out, Ensign.”  The captain leaned across the desk encouragingly.

“Well.  I can’t find any parallels in the language database, but I’ve got something – I’m just not totally sure what it means.”  She’d brought a PADD with her and now laid it on the table, pressing one of the buttons.  “This is a voice analysis program.  I was running it while Mal – while Gyarven was talking.  And this is the interesting part.”  She pressed another button, and the recorded voice issued from it.  Malcolm’s voice, speaking easy, informal English till it uttered one of the unknown words: _sztherai._ The word he’d associated with her.

“Look at the trace,” she went on, pointing.  “It dips.  It does that every time he says something that’s not English.”

“It’s probably just because he doesn’t understand the word,” argued Trip.  “Or his mouth’s not used to sayin’ it, or somethin’.”

“It would be usual for him to hesitate over speaking a word from a language other than the one the brain he is currently inhabiting is accustomed to using.  Especially if its connotations are – as the context suggests – unpleasant,” agreed T'Pol evenly.

“Yes, that’s what I thought.  But then I thought, why is it only the bad words he doesn’t say in English? I’m sure it’s not because he doesn’t know what they mean.”  She blushed.  “Most languages use the same sort of framework for concepts.  Insults can vary a lot between cultures, but you can usually find something that has the same sort of connotation. This – _sztherai_ – I don’t know, but I’m guessing it’s something like ‘slut’.  So I ran a comparison with the Sickbay readings Phlox recorded from his brain activity at the same time – and look.  It does the same thing.”  She pointed to the second trace, now running under the first.  The waves were small and regular during the English words, but shot into abrupt and unmistakable spikes as soon as the strange word occurred.  “There’s just one instance where it doesn’t happen.  Where he says ‘taljat.’  It’s not English, and I don’t know what it means, but there’s hardly any disturbance.  Look.”

They all looked down at the comparison.  The wave forms undulated slightly, but nothing like as dramatically as they did in other places.

“So you’re tryin’ to say that Malcolm’s still in there somewhere?  That he knows what’s goin’ on?” asked Trip, his face showing clearly that he was struggling between hope and incredulity.

“That’s exactly it.  I don’t think this is hesitation.  The spikes are too strong.”  She pointed again.  “I think this is _resistance._ ”

*                  *                 *

It was not a large planet – perhaps two-thirds the size of Earth – but its land masses covered roughly half of its surface.  Most of the dry land comprised a single super-continent, with a second smaller one joined to it by a land bridge.  To carry out a detailed scan would take a considerable amount of time, so the Science Officer set about it immediately.

The captain left her alone to get on with it.  He had ordered Ensign Sato to absent herself from comm duties in order to concentrate on the photographs she’d taken of the obelisk and try to work out if it could contribute anything to the effort to understand the civilization that had existed down there, and to discover how and why it had come to an end.  For there were no humanoid life forms down there now, but certainly even a cursory examination of the obelisk confirmed that there had been.  The panels on the sides of it contained multiple representations of them.

The Vulcan was perhaps an hour into her work when an idea came to her, and she paused.  Stopping the scan, she went to find Ensign Sato, who was seated in a quiet corner of the Mess studying magnified prints of the photographs with intense concentration.

“It has occurred to me, Ensign, that there is one person aboard who may well be able to help you with this task,” she said calmly.

Hoshi looked up, startled.  “There is?”

“The person currently describing himself as ‘Gyarven.’” 

A puzzled frown.  “Maybe he _could_ , Sub-commander, but I’m not sure he _would_.”

“There is nothing to be lost by asking him.  And you in particular may be the best person to ask, in view of your relationship with Lieutenant Reed.”  T'Pol wondered, not for the first time, why Humans were so prone to blushing when perfectly ordinary subjects were discussed.  “You made a perfectly valid proposal earlier, to the effect that the lieutenant may be in a position to exert _some_ kind of influence over events.  It would be absurd not to even attempt to provide him with further opportunities to do so, even in the smallest degree.”

“It wouldn’t hurt to try,” agreed the ensign, hurriedly starting to collect the photographs together.

“I am sure I don’t have to remind you to be cautious,” added T'Pol, turning to leave.  “The captain has ordered that no one is to actually enter the brig and risk physical contact, since we have no way of knowing exactly how Lieutenant Reed was ‘taken over’.  I would recommend you take with you someone you regard as a friend for support.  I imagine that in the circumstances Commander Tucker would be willing to oblige.”

“I could ask him,” said Hoshi dubiously.

“The commander is an excellent person to have at your side in a crisis.”  And with that parting observation, the science officer returned to the Bridge to resume her interrupted scanning.


	5. Chapter 5

Gyarven was seated at his ease on the bunk when Trip and Hoshi entered.  His head was tilted back against the wall, and his eyes were closed, but the tension on his face said he wasn’t asleep.

As per the captain’s orders, one of the guards came into the outer chamber of the brig, drawing the phase pistol from the clip at his hip.  “Sorry, sir,” he apologized, but the apology didn’t prevent him from leveling the weapon at the prisoner and keeping it there.

The gray eyes opened at the sound of footsteps, but he didn’t move.

“You again,” he drawled, staring at Trip.  “And the pretty little _sztherai._ I don’t suppose there’s been a change of heart.”

“Not the way you’re hopin’.”  Trip folded his arms and stared back.  “Well, you’ve had your little rest you asked for.  We were wonderin’ if you might feel like bein’ a bit more helpful.  As in, helpin’ Hoshi here with a bit of investigatin’.”

The gaze traveled to her, and lingered in a way that made her want to slap him.  “A _sztherai_ with intelligence, eh?  I’m intrigued.”

“Keep your goddamn mouth civil,” rumbled Trip.

“Actually, it was a compliment.  Although perhaps a slightly incredulous one.”  His English accent was impeccable.

Hoshi leaned forward.  “Tell me something.  When you call a woman _sztherai –_ a woman you dislike – what do you mean?”

He blinked suspiciously.  “‘Whore’, of course.”

The hours of playing poker had paid off.  Her face would have given nothing away.

It was obvious that he was expecting some response.  When none came, he stood up, sneering a little.  “You said you needed my help.  Was that all you came to ask?”

“No.”  She showed him some of the photographs, though not all; the selection had been carefully chosen.  “You came from that planet.  You must have spoken the language.  One of the things we do is investigate other civilizations, try to understand them.  I was wondering if you could tell me what these panels say.”

He looked closely at the prints.  “They’re long gone.  Why should you care?”

“We came out here to learn.  Not just about people who’re still here – some past civilizations were fascinating.  We want to find out about them all.”  A shrug.  “It’s one of my hobbies.  I found the obelisk and took a couple of photographs.  If I can put something about the language on the database as well, obviously it looks better.”

He folded his arms.  His expression was patronizing.  “I might be able to help you a little.  But I won’t give anything for nothing.”

Trip’s mouth was a straight, hard line.  “The cap’n says you stay in there.”

“Then she can come in here too.  One kiss, and I’ll help her.  One kiss, from the pretty little _sztherai._ ”

“No way.  She stays right out here!”

“Then anything I know _stays right in_ _here._ ”  Gyarven tapped his temple with a teasing forefinger and sat down on the bed again, smirking.

Hoshi switched off the com-link and turned around so whatever she said couldn’t be lip-read.  “Trip, I think this is really important.  I think some of those panels say something about him.  I have to find out how to read them.”

To preserve their privacy, Tucker took her back out into the corridor.  “Hosh’, the cap’n said specifically that _nobody_ was supposed to go in there with him.  We don’t know what happened to Malcolm and we don’t want it to happen to anyone else.  I sure as hell wouldn’t want to have to face him afterwards and try explainin’ why I disobeyed orders and turned his problem into your problem.  I’m kinda keen on keepin’ my insides inside me, if you know what I mean.”

“Then let’s ask the captain to make an exception for me.”  Reading the concern in his face, she put her hand on his arm.  “We need some kind of a break-through on this one.  I know it’s a risk, but Trip, I love him.  I know he’d risk it for me, I want to risk it for him.”

“Hoshi.  _That is not Malcolm in there_.  That is some murderin’ alien sonofabitch who boasts about killin’ people for fun.  Who thinks all women are whores.  And as for takin’ risks, as lover-boy’s mentioned to me on _more_ than one damned occasion, ‘takin’ risks’ is in his job description.  ‘Far as I know, it’s not in yours.”

“Trip.  We take risks all the time out here.  If I wasn’t convinced this is the only way we can help him I wouldn’t even think about it.  You heard what he said – I was right.  He could say the word _whore_ if it didn’t apply to me, but when he wanted to kiss me it was right back to _sztherai_ again.  Malcolm’s in there somewhere, I know he is.  Maybe if I get close enough he can give me something, some clue…”

“Yeah.  He could give you somethin’ we couldn’t cope with – just like happened to him.  We don’t even know there’s just one of these … aliens inside his head.  There could be another one. There could be twenty of ‘em in there, just waitin’ for the chance to take another ‘host’.  We might be wise not to take more chances than we have to.”  He walked a few paces up the corridor, turned around and walked back again, obviously torn with indecision.  “An’ the cap’n said _nobody_ was s’posed to go in there.  Especially not you, riskin’ getting’ taken as a hostage.  If you want to do this, we have to ask him.”

“If we ask him he’ll say no.”

“I’d guess he would.  An’ he’d probably be right.”

She looked at his troubled face and sighed.  It wasn’t fair to lay this burden on him.  He was the one who’d have to take the blame if it went wrong, and even disregarding whatever guilt he would feel on her account there had been enough bad blood spilled between him and the captain.

She stepped to the comm and pressed the buzzer.  “Sato to Sub-Commander T'Pol.”

“T'Pol here.”

“Sub-Commander, please can you meet me by the Brig?”

“I will be with you in a moment, Ensign.”  The connection closed.

“Dammit, Hoshi.  This is such a risk; I can’t believe you’re even thinkin’ about it.”

“Nor can I.”  Her smile was tremulous.  “But I’m sure he’s in there.  If he won’t even insult me, I can’t believe he’ll hurt me.”

“ It wasn’t you he was threatenin’ with a knife down there on the planet,” said Trip drily.  “I’m glad it was only in his head or wherever, ’cause he sure as hell wasn’t jokin’.  An’ while I’m not pretendin’ he’s in love with _me_ , I’d have said we were pretty good buddies. That sure wouldn’t have saved me if I hadn’t got that shot off with the phase pistol when I did.”  He put a hand on her shoulder.  “I’ll grant you, you got a result with the name-callin’ thing.  But when it comes to hurtin’ you or takin’ you hostage, well … I wouldn’t bet he could do much ‘bout that.”

Brisk footsteps a few moments later heralded the arrival of the Vulcan XO.  Even in the midst of her mental turmoil, Hoshi noticed the way Trip’s eyes went to her.  She hadn’t believed a word of what Malcolm had murmured in her ear one night, in fact her derision had led to him applying some of what he’d described as much-needed discipline; but she’d borne his words in mind, and close observation had since led her to believe he’d been absolutely right.  That hadn’t stopped her steadfastly continuing to deride his powers of observation though, largely because both of them enjoyed the resulting chastisement so much.

Quickly she and the chief engineer told T'Pol what had transpired.

“The captain would never agree to it,” she said at once, when they’d finished.  “The risks are manifest.  It would be illogical to risk giving the alien a second hostage, even if he did not inflict some injury on you at once.  We simply do not know what he is capable of.”

“I know what Malcolm’s capable of,” Hoshi answered simply.  “I trust him with my life.”

“We would all do so, Ensign.  But although I have no doubt of his _wish_ to safeguard you, should you put yourself in danger, we have insufficient information regarding his _ability_ to do so.”

“He was able to change the word when it was something personally offensive he didn’t want to say.”  The linguist spoke passionately.  “I was right.  We just confirmed it.  If the offer to help wasn’t genuine, he’d have changed that too.  He wants me to believe.  He wants me to go in there.”

The dark brown eyes scrutinized her carefully for a long moment.  “The idea has some merit,” T'Pol conceded at last.  “But I do not think the captain would feel it was enough.”

“You could persuade him,” pleaded Hoshi.  “I don’t want to get you or Trip into trouble if this goes wrong.  I want to do it, and it’s my own responsibility.”

“Captain Archer would not accept that.  You would be another hostage and, if the worst came to the worst, another loss to the ship.”

“But if it was someone you loved?” The cry burst out of her.  “Wouldn’t you want to take the risk?”

The silence was electric.  She waited for some crushing reply about what Vulcans didn’t do.

None came.  Until, finally,

“I will speak to the captain.”

“I guess we’d have a better chance if we both talk to him.”  Trip was still unconvinced, she could tell that, but he was letting her persuade him against his better judgment.  Maybe the captain would do the same when he knew they were both on her side in this.

“I want to go back into the Brig and see if … if there’s anything else he’ll tell me.”  God, why couldn’t she just tell the truth?  She wanted to look at him, however painful it was to see no recognition in his face; she wanted to believe that somehow, the man she loved was looking back at her, deriving some sort of comfort from her presence.  _I’m not giving up on you, Malcolm.  We’ll get you out of this, but somehow you’ve got to help me._

“Okay.  But stay in the outer chamber with Andrews till I come back.  He’s got his orders too, and he won’t open the door till the cap’n tells him to.”

“I will.  I promise.”

She watched her two senior officers walk back towards the turbo-lift.  She could only hope their combined powers of persuasion would suffice to change Captain Archer’s mind.

Because she didn’t see what on earth they were going to do for Malcolm otherwise.

 


	6. Chapter 6

“You actually think I should let her do this?” demanded Captain Archer incredulously.

“The honest truth?  Not in a million years,” replied Trip.  “Not unless you can't think of any other way to get some information, Cap’n; 'cause I’m damned if I can.”

“I have some information that may be pertinent.”  T'Pol had been silent up till now, but finally spoke up.  “I have discovered what appears to be a crash site down on the planet.  It contains wreckage that would seem to be that of a space ship.”

“You have?”  Hope suddenly leaped up in the captain’s chest, easing the weight of fear and worry that had been crushing him.  “Do you think it’s salvageable?”

“No, Captain.” If such thing hadn’t been completely beneath a Vulcan, he’d have sworn she paused just a little for dramatic effect.  “Initial analysis of the scans suggests it is roughly two thousand years old.  With our best efforts, I perceive no possibility we would be able to make the remnants of it spaceworthy.”

“Two thousand years?” Trip exclaimed involuntarily.  “He’s been here for _two thousand years?”_

“The possibility cannot be discounted.  He referred to the passage of considerable time since his arrival, during which he fought in the arena for the entertainment of an audience.  And from the evidence, the inhabitants of this world have been gone for many hundreds of years.  What happened to them, I cannot say.  He may know, if he would be willing to say.  I suspect he _does_ know, but he strikes me as being thoroughly untrustworthy.  At a guess, he is deriving some amusement from our predicament.”

“I’d bet the Fleet on it,” said Tucker darkly.  “He’s not worried.  He’s just sittin’ in there gloatin’.  He knows we’re going to have to let him go eventually.”

“Not without a fight.”  Archer looked grim.  “Well, if we can’t get his ship spaceborne again, that’s an option we can’t offer him.”

“But what will havin’ a ‘host’ get him?” demanded Trip.  “Is he lonely or what?  Does he think we’ll accept him just because he’s taken over Malcolm’s body?”

“Captain.”  T'Pol looked at him directly.  “I would advise most emphatically against conveying this … entity … on board ship.  In view of how little we understand his powers and his motives, he could prove to be a deadly threat, to the ship and possibly to any planet we come across.  Even Earth.”

“You’re sayin’ we should just send him back down there and leave him to die?”  The chief engineer looked appalled, but her expression didn’t soften one iota.

“Yes.  I am.”

“Jeez, T'Pol!  This is _Malcolm_ you’re talkin’ about here!”

“It is not Mister Reed who boasts openly about the number of lives he has taken, and who tried to take yours.  I don’t suggest this lightly, Commander.  But if we cannot find a solution, we must leave him here.  The needs of the many outweigh the needs of the one – and the lieutenant himself would tell you so, if he were able.”

The captain closed his eyes.  She was perfectly right, on all counts.  If they couldn’t find out a way to sort this out, then Gyarven was far too great a danger to risk.  With his consent or without it, they’d have to take him back to the planet and leave him there.  Along with his hapless host Malcolm, who would know – however much he would certainly agree with the logic and the absolute necessity of the decision – that he was being abandoned to face madness or death, whichever came first, alone.

“I don’t want to lose Hoshi too,” he said aloud.  _I’m the one responsible for her being out here in the first place.  I have to safeguard her.  She doesn’t know what she’s risking._

“Jon.  She’s a grown woman, not a little girl.”  Trip spoke very quietly.  “She knows the danger.  She knows he’d risk it for her.  And if anyone can get something out of this, it’s her.”

“But what if he hurts her?”  The anguish was too plain in his voice.  “What if we end up losing her too, for nothing?”

“She has said that she understands the risk and still wishes to try.  And I believe that she is mature enough to make her own decisions.  If Lieutenant Reed does indeed harbor feelings of affection for her, she may stand a chance of success.  As things stand, it is the only one we have.”

* * *

Five minutes later he and Trip were at the brig.  They’d left T'Pol on the Bridge, to try to glean more information from the scanners about the crashed ship on the surface.

Only Ensign Williams was on guard outside the doors, but the other half of the double guard he’d ordered was inside with Hoshi.

“I hope we’re doing the right thing,” muttered the captain, pressing the door control.  “You say she’s in there already?”

“Andrews’ll be keepin’ an eye on things.  He’s a decent guy; he’s one of Malcolm’s team.”  He grimaced.  “Well, he was till this happened.  I’d guess after he’s spent the last hour pointin’ a phase pistol at him, he might be lookin’ for a new post afterwards.”

But the scene inside was one of calm.  Crewman Andrews was still standing to one side, phase pistol at the ready.  Gyarven was seated on the bunk, looking up at Hoshi, who was standing just outside the door to his cell, and who looked as though she had been arguing with him.

“Hoshi.”  Captain Archer came to a halt beside her.  “I hear the prisoner’s offered to exchange some information you want.”  He was careful to keep his voice casual, as though humoring her in the pursuit of her absurd hobby.  “I’ve told you before, nobody in Starfleet cares that much about these photos of yours, or all your funny little notes about alien languages.  And if I lose you, think how boring my nights are going to be.”

“You never know, sir.  One day my notes might be worth something.  And I’ve put so much work into them.”  He had to give her credit, she was quick on the uptake.  “Just a kiss.  He says I’ll be safe.”

He stared through the reinforced glass at the prisoner, lounging negligently against the wall.  The face was the same, the body was the same; the gray eyes were opaque.  Malcolm would never have been found guilty of lounging in his captain’s presence, though.  That was the weirdest thing of all, seeing his ultra-formal Armory Officer apparently completely relaxed, as though watching something that he found mildly amusing, but not at all important.

You wouldn’t have thought, looking at him now, that he’d spoken with such appalling nonchalance of all the killing, done for no better reason than to please a baying crowd.  Thousands, he’d said.  Hundreds of thousands.  Come to watch a professional at work.

You didn’t get to be called ‘Death’ for nothing.

Archer somehow achieved a shrug.  “I suppose I’ll never hear the last of it if you don’t.”  As he turned away he grinned at Trip.  “If the worst comes to the worst, I can always have Anna.”

“I can recommend her, Cap’n.” 

He noticed Andrews’ eyes had gone a bit glazed, and made a mental note to straighten a few things out with him before the crewman went back to the Armory and told everyone not only that he and Hoshi were regular bed-partners but that Trip was sleeping with his Engineering XO and was perfectly happy to loan her out to him on demand.  He could just imagine how fast THAT would go around the ship.

“Still, I’ll feel better with some insurance.”  He gestured for the phase pistol and received it.  “Right, Hoshi.  One kiss in return for some information.  You won’t mind me keeping an eye on you while this … trade … takes place.”

“Why, Captain.  It almost makes me think you don’t trust me.”  Gyarven had straightened up with fluid grace.  “I’d never attempt to trespass on your province.”

“I’m sure.”  He checked the pistol, though he knew it was unnecessary.  Set to stun, the safety catch off.  He pointed it at the floor, but kept his finger on the trigger.  “Right.  I hope these damned photos are worth it.  You can make it up to me later.”

He keyed in the code to the brig door and leveled the pistol. 

The prisoner stood waiting, a little, dangerous, bright-eyed smile on his face.

Hoshi stepped forward, pulling the photographs from her pocket.  Anyone looking at her guileless, clueless expression would think she was some kind of space tourist.

“Payment first,” said Gyarven, and slipped an arm around her.

Archer took careful aim.  Hoshi wasn’t the fool she was acting.  She’d taken care to position herself so as to leave him the maximum possible target, and at this range he couldn’t miss.  His finger rested lightly on the trigger.  He’d pull it without the slightest hesitation.  And if for some unknown reason the stun setting didn’t work, he’d change it and fire again.

He’d have no choice.

Watching ‘Malcolm’ kiss her so thoroughly was crawlingly uncomfortable – her hands moved once, as though instinctively going to his body, but checked and fell back to her sides.  He felt like an intruder; worse, a voyeur.  If he hadn’t known the two of them actually were lovers it would have affected him far less.  The borderline between reality and charade blurred, and deadly danger was lurking in the shadows.

“Mmm.”  Gyarven released her and stepped back.  “Worthy of a captain’s bed, little _sztherai._ Now, the pictures.”

She drew them out of her pocket and handed them to him.  “I love finding this sort of thing,” she prattled as he glanced through them.  “On Hethrai III there was this whole wall, about three kilometers long, and the whole thing was covered in carving.  But there was nobody there; we don’t even know what happened to them.  All they left was this wall.  But I took lots of photos of that. Maybe when I send it back to Earth, someday someone’ll be able to work out what it means.”  She chewed her lip.  “I guess it might have been something about the guy in the middle of it.  He looked kind of important.”

He chuckled softly.  “All kings want themselves recorded for posterity.  This one was the same.”  He pointed at one of the figures on one of the panels she’d photographed.  “His name was Haz’ke-jael.”  His eyes ran quickly down the text around it.  “Haz’ke-jael of Kel-kallar, Favoured of the God, Mighty in War, Lord of –”

“No, wait!” Hoshi squealed, pulling a scanner from her pocket.  “Not just the translation.  I have to get the language as well.  It sounds so much better in my journal.  Can’t you just show me?”

His gaze had become abstracted.  An unpleasant smile tugged at his mouth as he studied the print.  “‘Favoured of the God’, eh?  Haz’ke-jael the Fool.  I bet they appreciated the irony towards the end.  Frankly, I’m surprised it’s still standing.”

“Please,” the linguist said beseechingly, holding the scanner ready.

Gyarven shrugged.  “Why not? One or two.  I get bored easily.”  His finger started at the lower left corner of the panel and tracked upwards.   His tone was careless, but he read fluently enough, stopping at the top of each column to give the translation of what he’d read out.  “The usual self-aggrandisement of a fool born in a bed of privilege,” he remarked when he’d finished, summing up the content fairly accurately.  The other two panels went into details of the countries the king had conquered and the tribute he exacted.  If even half of the countries listed were of any significant size, the builder of the obelisk had had some justification for wanting his achievements recorded.  He must have controlled a sizeable chunk of the continent.

“That’s enough.  I’m bored.”  He thrust the other two photographs back at her.  “Another day, perhaps.” But as she moved to step away from him he slid a hand suddenly up her shoulder and grasped her neck.  He held it lightly, but there was more than enough strength in those fingers to crush her throat in an instant if he chose to.  She stood perfectly still, staring into his eyes.

“Let her go.”  Captain Archer flicked the setting and took three steps forward.  The muzzle of the phase pistol was directly against Gyarven’s head.

The gray gaze was incalculable for a moment, but the fingers opened and released her.  “If I’d wanted to harm her, she’d already be dead,” the English voice said quietly.  “I take what I’m owed.  No more – no less.  You should remember that, Captain.”

Archer grabbed Hoshi with his free hand and dragged her past him and out of the cell.  He kept the pistol leveled as he retreated after her, and didn’t lower it till the cell door closed again and the electronic lock engaged.

 

*              *               *

 

**_‘You are wasting your efforts.  Give in.  You are like me in many ways.  We could work together.  We could be together.’_ **

_‘ – She walks in beauty, like the night, Of cloudless climes and starry skies;  And all that’s best of dark and bright, Meet in her aspect and her eyes –’_

 

 


	7. Chapter 7

“But it worked!”  Hoshi said, trying to calm her captain’s agitation.  The lecture he’d read her as soon as they were all safely all out in the corridor had gone more or less in one ear and out the other; she was too excited by the evidence safely captured on her scanner.  “I know I can use what he gave me to work out the rest!”

“You could have gotten yourself killed!” growled Trip, his equal wrath beginning to subside as they got into the turbo-lift.

“Well, he didn’t hurt me.  I knew he wouldn’t.”  The jaunty tone of her voice went some way towards disguising the fact that at one point she hadn’t been at all sure of it.  She’d been far more scared than she’d ever admit when those fingers closed around her throat and the freezing gray eyes so close to hers were those of a total stranger.

“You were lucky.” Archer said flatly.  “Luckier than we all deserved, falling for a stunt like that.”

“I’m not so sure it was a stunt.”  The chief engineer had turned thoughtful.  “Hoshi got her translation, or at least some of it.  And you got somethin’ as well.”

“Yeah.  A bad scare,” he grumbled.  “Next time somebody else comes up with one of these fool ideas, remind me not to let myself get talked into agreeing!”

“No.  More than just the scare.  He told you somethin’ – somethin’ important.  He says he takes _exactly what he’s owed_.  He actually told you to remember it.”

They’d arrived at the Bridge by now, but the conversation had taken such an intriguing turn that Hoshi didn’t immediately run to the comm station to begin processing her recording into the translation matrix.  The three of them stood on the deck beside the science station, looking into each other’s faces as each of them tried to work out what significance the words could have had.

“Is he claiming we owe him something?” the captain asked at last.

Trip shrugged and shook his head.  “Can’t imagine what.”

T'Pol lifted her head from studying the latest scans of the alien ship on the planet’s surface.  “I take it you carried out the plan.  Was it successful?”

“Well.  More or less.”  Hoshi grimaced.  “I got some of the language, with translations.  I should be able to put together a lot of what the other panels say once I’ve got it programmed into the matrix.”

“So Gyarven was willing to communicate to some degree.”

“Yes.  Right up till the time he tried to strangle her,” growled Archer.

One of T'Pol’s eyebrows rose.  “I trust you were not forced to use violence to persuade him otherwise.”

“I would have.  Luckily for us, he didn’t try to find out.”  He exhaled.  “Hoshi, get on with that translation.  I’ve got a few things I want to talk over with T'Pol and Trip.”

“Yes, sir.”  She would have liked to be in on that discussion, but she was by no means averse to setting off on the trail of discovery in her own special area of expertise.  She already thought she’d recognized some similarities between the structure of the verb forms and that of one of Halon V’s more obscure dialects; with the help of the computer matrix, those closely-packed hieroglyphs wouldn’t withhold their secrets for much longer.

As she walked to her station and her three senior officers walked to the captain’s Ready Room to continue their discussion, the small voice of doubt whispered in the back of her head that there was no saying that anything on the obelisk would be of any help to them at all.  And if it wasn’t, she’d risked her life for nothing, and they were more or less back where they started.

But if she didn’t get started, she’d never find out.

She connected the scanner to the terminal and began uploading the data.

*               *             *

“The more detailed scans confirm my original findings, Captain.”  T'Pol watched her commanding officer slump wearily behind his desk.  “If that ship was the one that brought Gyarven here, he has been here for more than two thousand years by local reckoning.  In Earth years, very slightly less, but not significantly so.”

“We don’t know his story’s true.  Let alone that that’s his ship.”  Commander Tucker had become somewhat truculent; evidently the episode in the brig had disturbed him considerably.  “It might be nothin’ to do with him at all.  He could be lyin’ through his goddamned teeth!”

“That’s true.”  Archer rubbed the bridge of his nose between forefinger and thumb, a habit of his when tired or disturbed.  They had no evidence; nothing but the claims of a man who had used to be their Armory Officer and was now – someone else. “But until we get some proof one way or the other, I’m going to assume what he says _could_ be true.  I don’t think I have many other options right now.”

“One question we have not yet addressed is what he wants of us,” said the Vulcan slowly.  “Is it simply his freedom – or something else?”

“Not much down on the planet for him to want to go back to,” answered Trip, after a startled pause for thought. “But maybe that’s the way he likes it.  We didn’t exactly ask if he wanted to come up here.”

“He didn’t exactly ask permission before he took over Malcolm’s body and attacked you,” growled the captain.  “I don’t give a damn what he wants.  I want him out of my officer and off my ship!”

“It is an old Earth maxim that ‘persuasion is better than force’,” observed T'Pol, feeling that they had lost sight of what they were actually out here for.  “It’s highly unlikely that he did what he did purely out of a sense of mischief.  At a guess, occupying Lieutenant Reed’s body affords him something that his incorporeal state did not.  And if nothing else, he is – as far as we know – a representative of a species we have never encountered before.  We have the opportunity to learn about him, and we should take advantage of it, if possible.”

“So what’s your idea?  I invite him to dinner?”  Archer’s incredulity was palpable.

“You have done so before when we encountered unknown alien species for the first time,” she pointed out.  “Admittedly, the circumstances in this instance were unfortunate, but we have nothing to lose by attempting to understand his motives.”

“ _‘Unfortunate’?_ ” he echoed.  “I’d call them a damn sight worse than ‘unfortunate’, T'Pol.  In case you hadn’t noticed, he did his damnedest to kill my chief engineer and he’s taken over my armory officer and intends to keep him because he’s _apparently_ ‘appropriate’ for his purposes!  For all we know, he could have the ability to take over half of the crew!  I feel pretty damn worried with him being in the brig, let alone in my dining room!”

“It is possible he misunderstood the situation.  His behavior may be due in great part to anxiety for his own safety.”

Trip had been a silent audience up till now, but at this point he laughed.  “It’s obvious you haven’t seen the guy.  Scared?  He’s the least scared of any of us.”

She frowned in puzzlement.  She’d been on the Bridge when the shuttle returned, and had remained in charge there, allowing the captain the freedom to pursue his investigations while she – to use a Human idiom – was left ‘minding the baby.’  Since by all accounts there was no visible alteration in Lieutenant Reed’s appearance, she had felt no compelling reason why her understanding of the situation should be improved by looking at him.

“He may well feel that showing his unease would increase his vulnerability,” she said rather acidly.  “He is alone, and in a ship he does not know.  His initial response to you on the planet could well have been simply a case of mistaken identity.  Then when he was brought aboard he was restrained by force and threatened with a weapon to coerce his co-operation.  We have hardly presented ourselves in a friendly light.”

“You’ve sure changed your tune!  Earlier on you were sayin’ we should dump him down there an’ run!”

“I said that he represented a threat.  I still believe it probable that he does, and that it cannot be overestimated.  But that is not to suggest that it would be impossible to reach some kind of understanding of his species, even if it does no more than confirm my earlier suggestion that we should not, under any circumstances, convey him to where he could do enormous harm.”

The Chief Engineer stared blankly at her.  “Is this some kind of Vulcan thing?  Invite someone to dinner who you’re plannin’ to dump alone on a planet and leave to die, and make _small talk_ with them?”

“If by ‘Vulcan’ you mean ‘logical’, Commander, I will take that as a compliment.  At present he may not understand us, nor we him.  In order for understanding to occur, there must be communication.  Your species appears to regard conversation over food as the optimum way to establish friendly relations.  The captain has demonstrated this on many occasions.”

“I tried my damnedest to be ‘friendly’ to him when he woke up,” retorted the captain, plainly nettled.  “Take a look at the recordings from Sickbay if you don’t believe me.  All I got for my trouble was a load of abuse for me and the doc, Trip threatened again, and my comm officer accused of being a whore!”

“Yeah, Malcolm never does anything halfway,” sighed Tucker.

The comm chime sounded.  “Sato to Captain Archer.”

Archer touched the button on his desk panel.  “Any luck, Hoshi?”

“Yes, sir.  I’m starting to put it together now.  Then perhaps, if she wouldn’t mind, Sub-Commander T'Pol could give me a hand translating the panels.  Two would be faster at it than one.”

“I would be perfectly willing to help you, Ensign,” said T'Pol calmly.  Back when she’d been a member of the V’Shar, decoding messages had been one of her specialty subjects.  “Please inform me when you have sufficient information to make a start.”

“Well, Cap’n, have you made your mind up?” asked Trip as the comm link closed.  “Feel like invitin’ our guest to dinner this evenin’?  Guess I’d better not show up if you do, or I might give him indigestion.”

Humans as a species were astonishingly poor at concealing their emotions, reflected the Science Officer as she left the Ready Room, but she’d rarely seen even Captain Archer look so conflicted.

 


	8. Chapter 8

The welcome pummeling of hot water on his tired head went some way towards reviving Jonathan Archer after one of the most exhausting days he could ever remember enduring.

He’d tried to talk himself into rejecting his XO’s suggestion that he invite Gyarven to eat with him.  In view not only of the danger, but also of what they planned to do to him if no less drastic solution could be found, it was a hell of a request.  He’d made valiant efforts at conversation through a few awkward meals, but this had to be in a class all of its own.  It would even cast that excruciating dinner with _Ti’Mur_ ’s Captain Vanik into the shade.

Unfortunately, the suggestion did have merit.  If they could get through it without any unfortunate incidents – and that in itself was a hell of an ‘if’, in light of how little they knew of their prisoner’s abilities and intentions – it would be an excellent opportunity to start some kind of a dialogue.  So far all Gyarven had seen of Starfleet hospitality was Sickbay and the Brig.  Having an armed guard present watching his every move probably wouldn’t convince him that all was now sweetness and light, but then he was hardly likely to believe that he was suddenly being fêted without any ulterior motive at all.

Realizing wearily that he was pretty well reconciled to the fact that he had a very unpleasant hour ahead of him, he sighed and leaned against the wall.  He’d known when he accepted command of a ship on a five-year mission that the years ahead of him were going to be very lonely ones as far as companionship was concerned, but he’d rarely felt lonelier than he did right now.

He didn’t think this was going to work.

And if it didn’t…

How would it feel for Malcolm, to be abandoned by the crewmates he’d so often risked his life to protect?

_Kinder to just shoot him out of hand,_ said a voice softly in his head.

_I couldn’t do that.  Gyarven could be the only one left of his species!_

_Sure.  Just the sort of guy the Universe is really going to miss._

_So how would I justify it to both of them?  Or should I just shoot them in the back as soon as I get the chance?_

_Doesn’t Malcolm_ deserve _a quick way out?  As for the other one … he probably didn’t worry too much about killing when it was him handing it out._

_Who made me the judge, jury and executioner here?_

_Necessity._

The comm chime interrupted his bleak reflections.

“Just a minute,” he called out.  If it was who he expected it to be, she’d hear his voice without difficulty.

He switched off the shower, squeezed the water out of his hair and stepped out of the cubicle.  A towel was laid ready, and he scrubbed his body hastily with it before wrapping it round himself and walking to the door control.  “Enter.”

“Oh – sir, I hadn’t realized.  Shall I come back?”  Hoshi took in his state of undress and colored slightly.  She was still in uniform, though it was some while after the end of her shift; at a guess, she’d commandeered a quiet room somewhere and gone on working on the translation.

“No.  If you’ve got anything to tell me I want to hear it right away.  I’ll dress in the bathroom, but you can fill me in in the meantime.”  He watched Porthos frisk around her, to which she responded by going down on one knee to cuddle the playful little beagle, who’d picked up with his invariable accuracy on his master’s troubled frame of mind and was delighted to have company.

Ordinarily he’d change into leisure clothes for his evening meal – he was, after all, now off duty (insofar as he ever got off duty; as the captain, he was on call at any time of the day or night) – but in view of the circumstances he felt it was hardly appropriate to do so now.  With an inward sigh he went to his closet and pulled out a clean uniform.

“So what have you got for me, Hoshi?”  As he headed for the bathroom again he glanced back at her.  Somewhat to his surprise she didn’t reply immediately.  Her face was buried in Porthos’ fur, and the dog was now whining in distress.

“Hey, now!  Hoshi!”  He threw down the uniform and strode back to her, making a brief check as he did so that his towel was tucked in securely.  “It can’t be that bad, surely?”

His comm officer looked up at him, and he could see she was fighting back tears.

“It’s – it’s pretty awful, sir,” she choked.  “You’ll have to send him back and – and leave him there.  He’s too dangerous.”

“Take it slowly.”  He sat down on the bed, and indicated she should sit next to him.  Ideally there would be somewhere a bit more appropriate for heart-to-heart talks, but hell, she wasn’t Erica.  And she was in love with another man, as well as being directly in his chain of command.  He felt authorized to put a strictly brotherly arm around her shoulders, though, seeing how upset she obviously was.

She pulled a couple of Kleenex out of one of her utility pockets, wiped her eyes, blew her nose and made a visible effort to steady herself.

“We got most of what mattered,” she said in a steadier voice.  “The Arinx – the people who lived down there – were apparently very territorial, but they settled things with duels rather than wars.  If you had a good fighter, you could annex territory.  And when Gyarven crashed here, they found out –” she swallowed – “that anyone he inhabited became virtually unbeatable. 

“So King Haz’ke-jael offered him a bargain.  He could have any host he wanted if he’d fight for him, for Kel-kallar.  And in return, he could kill whoever he wanted, whenever he needed to.”

“ _‘Needed’_ to?”  A cold feeling settled in the bottom of Archer’s guts.

Sato nodded.  “That’s what it says, we’re pretty sure of it.  When the obelisk was set up, it was working just fine.  The king was bragging about how successful his pet killer was.  His dynasty was going to rule the world and last forever.”

They were both silent.  Far beneath the ship, the planet turned steadily, without a single living member of the Arinx left on it.

_“They call me ‘Death’, in the arena.”_

 


	9. Chapter 9

Archer couldn’t ever remember being more nervous as he waited for his dinner guest to be brought in.

On one hand, he thought he had a handle on what had happened down on the planet.  On the other, the sheer scale of what had happened (if his theory was right) almost fused his brain.

The ship had identified dozens of cities down on the surface.  Once upon a time it had housed a thriving population.  There must have been hundreds of thousands of people going about their daily lives – living, loving, making homes, and having children.  They didn’t even have the specter of war to worry about.  Their rulers had come to this arrangement: that it was better to settle border disputes with chosen champions than to lay waste to half their subjects in pointless battles.  Tidier, simpler, more civilized.  No doubt as to the winner: whoever was still breathing afterwards.

But after Gyarven arrived, there had only ever been one winner.

Until, of course, they finally ran out of challengers.  But not out of his ‘needs.’

_“I take what I’m owed.  Nothing more – nothing less.  You should remember that, Captain.”_

The door chime almost made him jump out of the chair.

“Come in.”  He hoped his voice was steadier than it sounded in his own ears.

The sight of his armory officer was almost anticlimactic.  Surely this was just Malcolm, walking in quietly and decorously with one of his junior officers at his back?

Except that Malcolm was wearing electronic wrist-manacles, and the ensign behind him was covering him with a phase pistol.

Crewman Daniels had been remarkably unfazed by the order to prepare a dinner that could be eaten by a guest wearing handcuffs.  He’d blinked once, but that had been all.

If the theory was correct, however – _if_ it was correct – the handcuffs were completely unnecessary.  Everything, absolutely everything, hinged on the word ‘owed’.

_You should remember that, Captain._

He checked that his UT was still in his pocket and switched it on, just in case any of those non-English words happened to occur in the course of the conversation.

“Sit down.”

On only one previous occasion had he summoned his Tactical Officer to eat alone with him, in the effort to get to know the Englishman better.  He’d wanted to have an understanding on a more than professional level with all of his officers and as many of his crew as he could get to know; they were all out here for five years, and they’d better learn to get along.

It had been evident from the start that getting to know Malcolm Reed was going to be hard work.  He’d hoped that they might discover some shared interests; sports seemed a hopeful avenue.  Granted that as a Brit he’d be more interested in soccer, but it was a start.  Perhaps they could watch a game together and have a few beers, and Malcolm could explain some of its finer points to him; granted it was never likely to be half as enthralling as water-polo, but it was one way to break a little ice.

It had therefore been disconcerting to find that his opening gambit on England’s progress at the World Cup had fallen on unreceptive ears.  He’d apparently hired the one Englishman breathing who neither knew nor cared how the national side was faring in the most prestigious tournament of them all; though in view of the team’s track record, maybe Malcolm was just sparing himself the inevitable agony.

Thwarted on that score, but still hopeful, he’d intended to persevere, but an announcement from the Bridge had interrupted the awkward little tête-à-tête, probably to Malcolm’s deep thankfulness.  He’d never got around to arranging another, having discovered during the subsequent events of that day that his subordinate would only have been acutely uncomfortable if he had.  There were more ways than one of killing a cat, after all.

After that, he’d had be content with observing from a distance how the everyday interaction of life on board ship had slowly continued to thaw the Brit out.  In particular, Trip’s determined affability battered down the stony wall of his resistance, to the extent that it was apparent these days that a deep friendship existed between the two men.   This was not a novelty to Trip, who’d had the art of making friends from childhood, but Archer was almost certain that for Malcolm it was practically unique.  It had been particularly hard to believe the report that he had attacked his best, perhaps his only, friend with murderous intentions; but after witnessing the vituperation he’d unleashed in Trip’s direction when he recovered consciousness in Sickbay, the captain had no choice but to believe it.

“To what do I owe this pleasure, Captain?”  Gyarven came to a halt, surveying the table with raised brows.  He ignored the chair set ready for him and the instruction to sit in it.

“Well.  I was hoping that you might decide to be more ‘communicative’ over something to eat,” Archer replied frankly.  He hadn’t decided yet whether he preferred this smooth, ultra-polite persona to the previous abusive one.  He certainly didn’t trust him any better.  Briefly he reviewed his decision over whether to risk anyone else being present at this meal, and still thought he’d made the right one; although on such occasions it would normally be comforting to have his XO present, he’d decided to do this alone, though security recordings were being made for later examination just in case things didn’t work out.  At least then the ship would still have an acting captain.

“In handcuffs?”  He moved his hands forward very slightly.

The captain studied him.  He might as well have studied a sheet of duranium.  The face told him nothing.

“I’ll offer you a deal.”  He was used to going by instinct, and followed it now.  “I’ll take the handcuffs off and send the guard away, and in return you’ll behave yourself, eat dinner with me, go back to the Brig afterwards, and lock yourself in.”

The gray eyes widened slightly, and then narrowed.  “I accept.”

With the sinking feeling of having committed suicide on a dozen fronts, the captain entered his personal override code on the handcuffs.  This involved having to come far closer than he liked to the man locked in them.  It took some self-control not to step backwards in a hurry when it was done.

“Behaving myself as agreed, Captain.”  Gyarven brought his arms down to his sides, but apart from flexing the wrists once or twice he stood motionless.  His glance at Ensign Andrews didn’t escape the captain, and Archer nodded dismissal.  The guard blinked, but left without a protest.  Possibly he might feel it appropriate to wait outside, but that wouldn’t be close enough to be of much use if this risk proved as foolhardy as it felt right now.

After he’d gone, there was a tingling pause.

“Shall we start again?  I believe it’s considered impolite to sit down before you invite me to,” said his guest.

“So it is.  Sit down.”  He sat down on his own account.  Crewman Daniels peeped in from the galley to check they were ready, and set about bringing in the meal.

“It smells intriguing,” remarked Gyarven, studying the plate that was set before him.  “What is it?”

“Roast beef and Yorkshire pudding.  Your … ’host’ … is partial to it.”  He indicated the gravy boat.  “Pour some of that over it, if you want to.”

“After you.”

They ate for a couple of minutes in silence.  Gyarven’s table manners were a little uncertain, but he was a quick learner.  His expression of caution over the first mouthful of Yorkshire pudding soon became one of approval, though he clearly disliked the orange juice which was set out in a glass beside his plate; he didn’t touch it again after the first experimental sip.

“So, Captain, how long do you plan on keeping me a prisoner?” he asked at last, when the edge had been taken off his appetite.  There was no note of urgency in the query; he sounded more curious than concerned.

“I haven’t decided.”  Archer took a swallow of his own glass of orange juice.  “Like I told you this afternoon, I’d like to know a little more about you.  About your species.  We came out here to make contact with other civilizations.”

“There’s really not much to tell.”  He carefully scooped up a forkful of peas.  “My home world no longer exists.  The sun there went supernova long ago.  Some of us escaped.  Some didn’t.”

“Didn’t you have enough ships for a complete evacuation?”

“We were prepared.  Our worst enemy was time.” A small, grim smile came and went.  “The strongest survive, Captain.  We knew it could take many, many sun-turns before we found another world with suitable hosts; we invented a form of device that would hopefully keep each of us alive even after our hosts from the home-world eventually died.  Unfortunately, the journey was even longer than we’d expected.  Our ships began to run low on fuel, to develop mechanical failures.  Even our food supplies started running low.  Our hosts weren’t just getting old, they were starving; we’d brought some females to breed replacements in an emergency, but they needed more food than we had, and their pregnancies failed – the females always were hormonal, and the life on board ship made them stressed and ill.  We weren’t sure how well the devices would function, especially as we hadn’t had time to run much more than basic tests on them before we left, and some of us didn’t want to take the chance till they absolutely had to.  So the fighting started.”  He shrugged.  “I wanted my host to survive; who wouldn’t?  Once the competition for food started, I wasn’t going to sit back and allow him to be put at a disadvantage.  So I fought.  And though only the best were allowed to take up places on the ships, I was good.”  He took a sip of water.  “Very good.”

“Did your ‘hosts’ have any say in it?” asked the captain, chilled to the bone by this calm recital.

“No.  They weren’t capable of making that kind of decision.  We were the brain function.  All they had to do was obey.” Another shrug; he went on eating.  “Mine was lucky.  We were on the only ship to keep power long enough to make landfall.  Though we hadn’t even the power left to make a controlled landing; in the end, all we could do was let gravity take us and try to bleed off speed in the atmosphere before we hit.”

Archer’s half-eaten meal was forgotten on his plate; he was rapidly losing his appetite, though it hadn’t been good to start with.  “So how many of you survived?”

The hard gaze of the man opposite him was fixed on a window, though he was obviously looking far beyond it, staring back more than two thousand years.  “The impact?  Six.”

“And after the impact?”  He made his own gaze just as hard.

The eyes came back to him.  There was an instant’s silence.

“One.”

He’d known what was coming, and hadn’t wanted to believe it possible.  His own blood roared in his ears as Gyarven went on, calmly.

“We’d used our scanners to weigh up the situation when we established an orbit.  The planet’s inhabitants hadn’t developed warp capability.  They were a finite resource.  But they were too highly developed for our purposes; we’d have needed a geneticist to be able to develop a strain suitable for us to use, and unfortunately geneticists hadn’t made the best fighters during the struggle over food.

“But it’d taken almost all the power we had left to establish orbit.  We hadn’t enough to break out again; it was this place or nowhere.  I knew the landing was going to be bad.  We all did – eight of us were so scared they connected their hosts to their devices and terminated them, hoping to survive that way.  There was a special shielded compartment built into the ship to give the devices the best possible protection in an emergency, so theoretically they had a decent chance of coming through intact.  The rest of us decided to just take our chances.  Not before I’d destroyed the eight active ones, though.  It was such an obvious precaution I’m just surprised they didn’t think it would happen.

“It was worse than bad; the ship broke in half on landing.  There were fifteen of us still hosted when we hit the planet, and nine were killed outright.  Including the pilot, but I’d have killed him anyway, for incompetence if nothing else.  And those of us who were left knew the situation.”

“Limited resources.  So you fought.”  The statement emerged through lips that felt as though they were numb.

He nodded.  “Survival of the fittest,” he said matter-of-factly.

“And then you got yourself taken on as the king’s hired murderer.”

“Ah.”  Malcolm’ eyes – no, _Gyarven’s_ eyes – narrowed.  “So you’ve worked that out, have you?”

It was the captain’s turn to shrug, though the movement took an effort.  “Some of it.  Enough, I’d imagine.”

The other man paused briefly.  “Yes, I did.”

“God Almighty!”  He couldn’t hold still any longer.  A shove, and his chair went back from the table with a squeal.  “He knew what you were, and he still made a deal with you?”

“He knew some of it.”  A cold smile.  “The part that interested him.  I told him the truth.  Or at least some of it.  Any questions he asked, I answered honestly – just as I have with you.”

“So on your home world you did the same thing – you had to kill people as a matter of _routine?  All_ of you?”

“Our food source hardly qualified as ‘people’, Captain.  That was what made our original hosts so very suitable.  In their own natural environment, once we’d helped them wipe out the species who preyed on them, they were prolific breeders.  If we hadn’t kept the numbers down, they’d have overrun the place and made themselves extinct in a couple of generations.  It was a balance.  The survival of the fittest again.  The strongest were kept to be used when our young were conceived.  The others, the weaker ones and any who showed some signs of intelligence, were … food.”

“But surely you … surely you didn’t have to eat …” The food he’d eaten himself felt as though it was now lodged just under his larynx.  “Wasn’t there anything else you could have eaten _instead?”_

“You’ve missed the point, Captain.  We didn’t have to eat for physical sustenance; that was our hosts’ business.  We needed _energy –_ an extremely specific form of it _._   Under the right conditions, highly developed brains produce a charge that’s quite unique; you can’t get nearly the same sort of thing from an animal.  And even a child’s brain has enormous reserves of it.  Of course, our hosts’ brains never actually got to achieve the development, we made sure of that, but they had the capacity to.  We only had to let the selected ones get big enough to be suitable, without impeding their mentality, and by the time they were the right age for harvesting one was enough to satisfy several of us for quite some time.  And of course, the hosts there understood.  Insofar as they understood anything, of course.  We simply controlled their emotional responses towards the appropriate offspring.”

“But you couldn’t do that with the people here, of course.”  To run a scheme like that, you needed numbers, controlling the females.  Assuming people who’d been on this evolutionary level could be controlled that way, turned into baby-producing machines.  Host-producing machines.  _Food-_ producing machines.  He wasn’t going to ask what the ‘right conditions’ were.  He could take a guess. 

“It would have been difficult, even if we’d had the capability,” Gyarven agreed, without the slightest flicker of feeling.  The females here were slow breeders – it took them nearly a year to produce a single offspring.  If there’d been a decent number of us, we could perhaps have organized something, but I had to work with the situation as it stood.  And Haz’ke-jael offered me a deal.  Endless supplies of challengers, criminals, political enemies … whoever he wanted disposed of, and free entertainment for the mob thrown in.  Unfortunately, what he didn’t think to ask – until it was rather too late – was how long I was expected to live.  He’d thought the host he’d given me would wear out, get old, and get killed, and eventually of course it did.  But the natural option for me then was to take over the man who’d defeated him.  Younger, fitter, better material in every way.  And Haz’ke-jael had made the bargain with _me_ , not the host I was inhabiting at the time. 

“I’ll give him credit, when he eventually realized the situation, he did try to put it right.  My word, he certainly tried.  I’d exchanged about twenty hosts by the time he finally got a grip on the situation.  By the end of his reign, we’d taken over every kingdom that existed and were getting so short of criminals in Kel-kallar they were having to import them.”  A sardonic smile.  “I was wonderful news for the crime statistics.  People were so terrified of the punishment they’d rather throw themselves off a cliff than break a bylaw.”

Archer rose and walked to the window.  He stared down at the planet below, thinking of all those cities where not a single inhabitant survived.  “Tell me why there are none of them left,” he said at last.  _Surely he couldn’t have needed to kill them all.  He said one child could feed several of them for quite some time…_

“I made a miscalculation,” Gyarven answered in a quiet voice.  “I decided the population could support the predation if I reproduced.”

Two of them.  Or more.  God in Heaven.

“My figures were right, based on my own requirements,” the other man went on.  “Unfortunately, for some reason the fetuses I implanted my offspring in reacted badly.  When they were born, their appetite was voracious.  I had to provide for them; they were mine.  By this time, the whole planet was under control, so I knew that even so the situation should – just about – balance.

“However, what I hadn’t taken into account was that word spread.  People panicked.  They attacked us.  It did no good, of course; the hatchlings had the same ability I had, to re-host.  It just cost unnecessary lives and achieved nothing.

“Then the hosts lost their heads altogether.  They started accusing innocent people of collaborating with us.  Anarchy set in.  Anyone and everyone who was suspect was murdered.   They even accused people of actually _being_ us – and of course, by the time the mistake was discovered, it was rather too late to put it right. The women stopped breeding.  As soon as we appeared, people went into a frenzy, started killing their own families because it was _quicker than what we’d do to them._   So it was, but they were depopulating the place faster than our whole shipload would have done if we’d landed without a single casualty.”

He paused to take another sip of water.

“It came down to the point where my offspring and I were actually having difficulty finding prey.  The hosts just got scarcer and scarcer.  And as soon as they knew they were cornered, they’d kill themselves.  Whether they did it out of fear, or whether somebody had reached the conclusion they might actually starve us to death, I don’t know.  Certainly there were one or two cities when somebody had systematically killed the whole population, and I can’t think of any other reason.  But it worked.  The hatchlings just got weaker and weaker.  Even when they were able to re-host, the body quality was never any good.  And eventually they started to compete against each other – and me.

“I wanted some of them to enter the devices; there were a few left functioning by then.  But they were so attached to being ‘alive’, they wouldn’t hear of it.  And, of course, even in their weakened state they were each a source of the energy I needed.”

The silence was thicker than blood.

“So I used them.  One by one.”

His voice had no emotion whatsoever.  It didn’t even sound like he was suppressing it.  It was if he simply didn’t _feel_ it.  And after a moment, he continued calmly.

“There weren’t enough Arinx left by then to recreate a viable population.  If I’d returned to stasis and left them to breed, they’d just have degenerated into inbred halfwits, no good to themselves or anyone else.  I hunted them down and fed, and when the last one was gone I returned to my device.  And there I stayed till your landing party triggered the sensor alarms.  I’m afraid I was a little confused when I woke up, which I’ll plead as my excuse for my initial rudeness.  Part of the programming includes stimulating my more vivid memories, so when I first took over this new host I was … you could call it ‘sleepwalking’, for a while; a purely defensive mechanism, in case the first encounter isn’t of a friendly disposition.  Please extend my apologies to your officer. I’m sure he didn’t deserve to be so rudely attacked.”

“Was the dinner okay?” asked the captain, fighting not to gag.  He’d heard all he could handle for now.  Dessert would have to be cancelled.  It was a certainty that he’d never look at pineapple cobbler again without feeling sick.

“Yes.  It was delicious.  Thank you.”  He’d cleaned his plate, apart from a little fat off the beef, which he’d cut off delicately and left in a small pool of congealing gravy.

“Then I’d be grateful if you’d go back to the brig as we agreed.  And ask Mister Andrews to comm me when he’s back on guard.”

“Certainly, Captain.”  He rose at once.  He operated the door control and left silently.

Archer sat in silence until the comm sounded and Andrews’ voice told him the prisoner was back in the brig, apparently settling down for a nap; the locks were engaged, he’d offered no resistance and everything was quiet.

“Keep an eye on him.”

“Yes, sir.”

He commed the beta shift on the bridge and had a scan run.  Malcolm’s biosigns were in the brig.  He’d known they would be.

Then he rushed for the head and vomited his guts up.

 


	10. Chapter 10

He called T'Pol, though it was late by then and she was probably meditating.  He just didn’t feel able to keep the information to himself, though he knew that later he’d probably call himself a few names for his weakness.

She materialized at his cabin door after a couple of minutes, clad in a blue sweatsuit.

She appeared her usual imperturbable self, and brushed aside his polite apologies.  “I take it you were able to obtain some pertinent information on our current situation as regards Lieutenant Reed,” she observed.

His first instinct had been to call Trip as well, but he’d stopped with his finger on the call button.  Trip had enough on his plate right now; he was blaming himself for starting off the whole chain of events with that ill-advised whistle to test the acoustics in the arena.  It might have been merely a coincidence, but it might not; and finding out exactly what category of monster had taken over his friend and junior officer would be just about the last thing he needed at this particular moment.  No doubt he’d want to be involved, but it would be kinder to bring him into the discussion if – Archer resolutely amended that to ‘when’ – they’d figured out some kind of plan of attack.

The same reasoning applied to Hoshi.  In view of these latest discoveries, he’d commed the security team guarding the brig and told them that under no circumstances was anyone to be admitted to visit the prisoner unless he was personally present.  And if he was present, there was absolutely no way that Hoshi was going to be exposed to that kind of danger again.  Nor did he intend that she be made aware, unless she really had to be, of the full true nature of the _thing_ that had kissed her so passionately.  She already knew some of the bad news.  Filling her in with the rest of it would just about put the icing on the cake.

It wasn’t usual for the security cameras to be activated in the captain’s personal mess, but on this occasion he’d felt it justified.  And he was glad he’d thought of it when it came down to giving his XO the lowdown on exactly what had been said during that memorable meal, because he doubted he could do it justice.  The sheer sang-froid with which the account had been delivered defied description.

So the two of them surprised the beta shift bridge crew again by repairing to the Ready Room, where he brought up the file and found the relevant place in the recording, at which point he just activated the play function and sat back to let T'Pol listen and come to her own conclusions.

“Remarkable,” she said when the playback had finished.  Both eyebrows were raised, which was a sure testament to how disturbed she was.

“You Vulcans do do understatement, don’t you?”  Once upon a time it would have been said without humor, even with venom, but now a wry smile accompanied it.  “If I was picking a word to describe him, ‘remarkable’ wouldn’t be the first I’d think of.”

“His actions are flawlessly logical,” she observed.

“Yeah.  There’s another two I wouldn’t have used.”  He’d brought in a cup of coffee, and took a gulp of it now because it still seemed to him he could taste vomit.  “He’s a survival machine.”

“And an extremely effective one.”  She paused.  “Unfortunately for the Arinx.”

“Well, that’s a fact, but it’s not our problem right now.”  He stared at the computer monitor, now displaying the Starfleet logo again.  “Our problem is that he’s taken Malcolm as his ‘host’ and we haven’t a damned clue how to get him to leave.  And unless we can find some solution, somehow we’re going to have to put both of them down on that planet and leave them there.”  Once more the thought of that second and more final alternative occurred to him, and he shuddered.  The parasite might be able to transfer itself to a replacement host if one was immediately available, but dealing with the business end of a phase cannon blast from a ship high in orbit might be a whole different ball game.  Admittedly he’d be putting an end to the last of a species; he didn’t feel good about it, and he was aware that however loathsome Gyarven might be, T'Pol would almost certainly raise strenuous objections to an act that would effectively be an act of extinction.  Nevertheless, the thought of that thing living to spawn more of its nightmare offspring all over the galaxy made his flesh go cold.  And it would be the last kindness he could do for his hapless armory officer.

Malcolm would appreciate that as a way to go.  Better than the alternative, anyway.

“I have an idea, Captain.  I request permission to view the recording a second time.”

“Be my guest.”  He gestured, and helped himself to another swallow of coffee.

He tried not to listen to it, but the sheer amorality of Gyarven’s world-view held its own horrible fascination. Familiarity didn’t make it any easier to bear, however, particularly when he got around to the part about feeding on his own children.  Briefly it occurred to him to wonder just how the hell Malcolm was managing with something like that sharing his head, and how badly damaged his armory officer might be if and when they got him back, but with an effort he put the issue aside.  Reed was possibly the best-able person on the ship to resist psychological torture, and worrying about whether he could cope would only distract them from finding a way to release him from the torment as quickly as possible.

T'Pol paid particular attention to one section of the recording, playing it several times for some reason, while the captain drank his coffee and tried to reconcile what appeared to be a rigid code of honor about keeping promises and telling the truth (if not the whole of it) with an utter disregard for the wellbeing of any other living creature _up to and including_ one’s own offspring.  He couldn’t. 

“There may be a way.  But I will need to go down to the planet tomorrow, as early as possible.”  She shut her mouth in a way that plainly said, ‘And that’s all I’m going to say, so don’t ask.’

“Take Trip with you.  He’s itching to have something to do, so this’ll get him out of my ear.”

The Vulcan inclined her head.  “His expertise may be useful.  I was about to request permission to have him pilot the shuttle for me.”

“Good.  Now, get back to your meditation or whatever it was that I interrupted.  And thank you,” he said softly.

“You’re welcome, Captain.  And with respect, might I suggest that you try to get some sleep yourself?  It’s been a difficult day.”

“You’re telling me,” he yawned.  “I have to take Porthos for his stroll before I turn in.”

“You could easily delegate the duty to any crewman from Gamma shift.”  She paused in the doorway, looking rather severe at his lack of logic.

“Yeah, I know.  But I sort of like to take a walk round the place myself.  ‘Beating the bounds,’ Malcolm calls it.”  He chuckled wryly.

“I am not familiar with that expression,” she admitted.

“Me neither.  I think it’s a British thing.  Ask Malcolm to explain it to you when we’ve got him back.”  He met her gaze, and held it.  “I’m relying on you, T'Pol.  As a matter of fact, I think assigning you to _Enterprise_ was the best damned thing the High Command could have done for us.”

“I rather doubt that was the effect they had in mind.”  Time was when he wouldn’t have noticed the little twitch of humor, but then time was when there wouldn’t have been one to notice.

“I guess not.  Just goes to show, huh?”

“Indeed.”  She went out, and the door closed behind her.

Porthos, who knew the signs, jumped up, tail wagging.

“Yeah, buddy, we’re going now.  Just remember what T'Pol said – I’ve had a heck of a day.  No running around barking, and if we meet Phlox, not a word about this.”  He removed a cube of cheese from a bag on the sideboard and tossed it to the dog, who snapped it up eagerly and swallowed it in a single gulp. 

“Right.  We’ve got to go beat the bounds.  Whatever that means.  Remind me to ask Malcolm.”  He tried to project confidence rather than hubris.  They _would_ rescue Malcolm.  Whatever it took.

Or, if the worst came to the very worst, they’d do the only thing they could for him.

Kill him.

*               *               *

 

**_‘Of course they’re trying to think of some way to rescue you.  They obviously value you.  But they won’t succeed.  How long will it take you to realize that?  Do you really want what they’re going to have to do to us?  And all it would take to prevent that is for you to –’_ **

_‘–House of Wessex: Æthelstan, 927-939. Edmund 1, 939-946.  Eadred, 946-955.  Eadwig, 955-959. Edgar the Peaceful, 959-975.  Edward the Martyr, 975-978.  Æthelred the Unready, 978-1013. House of_ _Knýtlinga: Sweyn Forkbeard, 1013-1014.  House of Wessex (First Restoration)–’_


	11. Chapter 11

“We’ll be lucky if there’s anything left of it after all this time.”

“There is enough to register as almost a complete structure on our sensors.  It must have been made of some extraordinarily strong and weather-resistant material.  I will attempt to retrieve a sample of it for further study.”

_First we’ve got to get there,_ Trip thought to himself, wielding the ax to cut through another clump of greenery that blocked their path. 

The crash site was deep in the jungle some kilometers north of the city where all the trouble had begun, and spaces for landing the shuttle there were few and far between.  They’d had to set down in the nearest and complete the journey on foot, and it wasn’t a pleasant experience.  They day was overcast and hot, the humidity high, and the insects almost insatiable.  Phlox had provided the landing party with a repellent spray that did something to ward off bites, but the bugs still found them intriguing and landed with infuriating persistence on any area of exposed skin as though hoping somehow to find a spot that wouldn’t taste bad.

At the best of times Trip wasn’t a lover of insects.  He had even less time for insects that hung and buzzed around him like a cloud, defying his efforts to deter them with the aid of a leafy branch snapped off from a handy bush.  It didn’t improve his temper to see that hardly a single bug appeared to be attracted to T'Pol, who walked sedately beside him in almost total serenity.  Sweat was running down his face, but she seemed not to be feeling even uncomfortably warm; though considering the temperatures found on Vulcan that was hardly surprising.  She probably wasn’t relishing the humidity, but her body was probably far better able to cope with the effects of heat than his.

“We’re not far away now.”  She consulted the scanner.  “A little more than a hundred meters.”

“Sounds like a walk in the park.”  He slashed with the ax again.  Give her credit, she was carrying one too, and using it with just as much vigor.  Though he’d have kind of liked it if she’d been showing the wear and tear of the effort a bit more, instead of looking like she was wielding a fan like some Spanish duenna.

A bough from the young tree he’d just demolished scraped across his face, and a lizard fell out of it and ran across his shoulder.  “Damnation!”  He brushed it off, thankful it hadn’t bitten him.

“Are you all right, Commander?” She looked across at him in concern, obviously having caught the quick movement out of the corner of her eye.

“I’d be fine if the wildlife’d just leave me alone,” he growled.

“We are damaging their habitat,” she pointed out, damaging a bit more of it.

“A place like this?  Give it a week, and you’ll never know we’ve been here.”  It rained fairly frequently around here; the last downpour had ended just before they landed, and the wet reek of it reminded him strongly of the Everglades, though at least this place didn’t run to swampland conditions or alligators.  At least, not that they’d come across so far.  He was keeping a weather eye on his scanner to make sure nothing on a significant rung of the food chain approached them, just in case it mistook of them for lunch.

“The growth rate is probably extremely vigorous,” she agreed, removing a large bronze beetle from her chest with due care.  He was thankful she didn’t ask him if he was interested in a closer acquaintance, as he certainly wasn’t – at least, not with the beetle. 

They went on hacking and struggling for what seemed like an eternity, though their chronometers informed them that just under an hour had passed before they came across something that loomed suddenly through the greenery like a wall of silvery-blue metal.

“Pay dirt.”  Trip ran a hand across his sweating forehead.  “We’ll find a way in then stop and have a drink.  He said it broke in half, so we shouldn’t have a problem there.”

“Indeed.”  Studying her own scanner, she pointed to the left.  “That way.”

Well, wouldn’t you know it.  The way that was practically solid vegetation, as opposed to the right, which was significantly less dense.  He sighed.  “Gotcha.”  He transferred the ax to his other hand to let him flex his fingers for a moment; they were cramped and tired, and his whole arm was one solid ache now spreading through his shoulder and down his side.

“Rest.  I will finish it from here.  There are only a few meters left.”

“No need, thanks, T'Pol.  I can handle it for a while longer.”  His pride wouldn’t let him accept the offer, though it was with gritted teeth that he took hold of the handle again and swung it. 

The pair of them hacked their way through with a burst of determination, and came to the place where the wall gave way to a great rent through which the undergrowth crowded. 

Several trees had succeeded in growing between the two halves into which the ship had indeed broken.  The halves themselves, however, were comparatively intact, given the violence with which the craft had landed.

As agreed, they halted to drink.  Trip’s throat was parched and his uniform sodden; the humidity ensured practically zero evaporation.  He dug the flask of iced coffee out of his backpack and drank about half of the contents thirstily, tempted to pour the rest of it over his head in the effort to cool down.  It was probably inevitable that T'Pol sipped her mint tea as daintily as though she were attending some goddamn reception in the Vulcan Ambassador’s Residence.

Over the years, a layer of rotten vegetation had accumulated inside each of the halves of the ship that had allowed plants to get a foothold.  Anything made of any metal subject to rust would have corroded away long ago, and even this ancient ship was finally showing signs of wear and tear along the many fracture lines in what remained of the hull.  Still, a remarkable amount of it was still intact, and the relatively poor light and shallow foothold had limited the ability of the jungle to colonize the interior.  The visitors didn’t need to use their axes to push a way through the plants that had found it sufficient for their needs, though here and there it was quite tough going and soon it was necessary to use the torches they’d brought with them.

“Look.”  He pointed silently to a portion of the wall almost opposite.  Some kind of painted curse had been daubed across it; though it was flaking into oblivion, the helpless venom in the slashes still screamed aloud.

They’d have known, of course.  What had brought Death to their planet.

“I have identified the room I wish to find,” said T'Pol, forcing aside a door that seemed to have jammed half-open; it moved with a long, anguished squeal.  “From the construction of the ship, it would appear to be the optimum place to store anything of great value.”

“The ‘devices’ he mentioned.”  Trip had been filled in on the details over breakfast with her and the captain.  Though she still hadn’t been willing to disclose what her plan was, claiming that it was still incomplete.

“Indeed.”  They were now in a corridor, whose walls and floor were partly buckled.  The blown debris of the centuries partly filled it. 

Much depended on how terrified the rage-filled paint-wielder had been.  Had he been reckless enough to have forced his way onwards, to have risked the thought that other Deaths might be lurking here?  If so, had he been intelligent enough to recognize what was there, and angry enough destroy them all?

The door she indicated was at the far end.  Debris had accumulated against it, and the two of them used their hands to scoop it away.  The sweet smell of rottenness almost made him gag, and he closed his mind to the things that ran and slithered away from his fingers.

There was a control panel, but it didn’t work of course.  Fortunately the impact had damaged virtually every piece of metal on the ship, and even here the frame had folded slightly, leaving places where determined fingers could reach round the lip of the door.

“Gonna take two of us, I’d guess,” gasped Trip, having tried to shift it on its own and found it hardly shifted a centimeter for all his heaving.  “Either that or we come back with charges and blast it loose.”

“We can at least try.”  She slipped in alongside him and bent, tucking herself closely under him to get hold of the door with her own fingers. 

He shut his eyes for a moment.  At a guess she hadn’t the slightest idea of what even that slight contact did to him.  _She’s a Vulcan.  You’re a Human.  Get your mind out of the damn gutter and get on with it._

It wasn’t the gutter.  It was … hell, what was the use. 

“Ready?”  Even the irony of that was enough to choke him.  He shifted just a little to get his fingers more securely anchored around the door’s edge, and braced himself.  “Now, _pull!”_

The exhaustion of the ax-work told on him.  Fire ignited in his weary right shoulder, but he forced himself to ignore it.  He braced his feet as best he could, one on the slippery flooring and the other on the wall opposite, and strained with all his might, feeling his companion’s slender back curved against him, shuddering with effort.

The metal gave a couple of centimeters and stopped.  T'Pol stopped and straightened up, almost bumping into him in the process.

“I think it would be better if you stood there and pushed.”  She pointed to the surface he’d braced his foot against, where the corridor met the wall beside the door frame.  “Now we have a space to work in, that would afford you better traction.”

She was right, of course.  He took up the position she’d suggested.  She stayed where she was.  When they were ready again her head was just beneath his chin.  It would take only the smallest movement for him to drop a kiss on top of it.

Not that the idea had occurred to him.

“ _Push!_ ” she ordered.

_In the gutter again, Tucker,_ he groaned to himself as he put all his remaining strength into the effort.  Still, at least that was helping him not to notice the agony in his arms and shoulders, the strain in his arched back pushing off the wall at this goddamn awkward angle.

And slowly, slowly, the door gave in, grinding back in its grooves with a sound like a long-drawn-out malediction.  As the distance became greater he lifted one foot and planted it on the wall behind him, using that to help him now he could no longer push against it with his butt.

They didn’t have to push it more than halfway open; just as well, because suddenly it jammed fast.  It was totally immovable; nothing short of an explosive charge would move it, if he was any judge.

But the gap was wide enough. Just.  T'Pol would get through sideways easily enough ( _well_ most _of her will_ ), though for him it’d be a mite more of a squeeze.

It was dark inside.  Their flashlights lit up a small space, little more than a tall deep cupboard.  The three walls inside of it were lined with small, reinforced and heavily padded compartments, each of which contained a roughly oval metallic object, perhaps thirty centimeters in diameter and half that in height.  The upper front part of each had a number of display panels and what looked like a touch pad.

Eight had had some sharp object forcefully and precisely driven through the top of them.  Trip removed one, handling it with extreme care; doubtless this was why his presence had been required, to give an expert’s opinion on the artifact.  Through the deep indentation he could see a mess of broken micro-circuitry, and wondered if it would be appropriate to bring one of these things back to the ship so he could study it at leisure.  He’d never encountered any device that had been designed to do what this had done, though Gyarven had certainly done a good job of making sure that this one would never work again.

Apart from these, the rest were intact, if lifeless.  They were shrouded in dust.  The compartments that had been so carefully designed to safeguard them were no more than tombs enclosing empty coffins.

But one of the tombs was empty.

T'Pol squatted down to look at it.  Her expression registered deep satisfaction.  “Ah.”

“‘Ah’?”  Trip hunkered down to look too.  “Ah,” he said again in quite a different tone as realization dawned.  “He took it with him.”

“And at a guess, it is still functioning.”  She pointed her scanner at the nearest and took readings from it, changing the settings to get the most precise information possible.  “Now, if we can find it, we have the basis for a rescue of Mister Reed.”

“You’ll have to be close to pick up somethin’ that small.”  At a guess, even if they re-programmed the ship’s sensors they’d have trouble locating it from orbit.

“I am almost certain I already know where it is,” she replied, straightening up.

He followed suit.  The space was so narrow width-ways they had to stand closer together than they normally would.  Not that he minded that.  It was kind of nice to think that she didn’t mind it either.  She wasn’t even wrinkling her nose up at the smell of sweat in that cramped, stuffy place.

“The arena!  Of course!”  He shook his head admiringly.  “We can fly the shuttle straight back there as soon as we’re through here.  But assumin’ we find it okay, mind tellin’ me now how you’re plannin’ on rescuin’ Malcolm?”

She looked up at him, and there was not a trace of a smile on her face.

“I am going to challenge him to a duel.  And I am going to kill him.”


	12. Chapter 12

“And you think I’m going to SANCTION this crazy idea?”

Captain Archer stared incredulously at his First Officer.  Was it something about this particular area of space that was making everybody come up with lunatic suggestions?

On the surface, she didn’t _look_ as though she’d gone insane.  She looked like she always did, calm and sure of herself.  One eyebrow was slightly raised, but more as though she was surprised he hadn’t just fallen in like a meek little lamb with the idea of two of his officers dueling to the death.

He transferred his gaze to Trip.  To judge by the silence from that direction, this had already been discussed between the two of them during the journey back from finding Gyarven’s ship, and to go by the chief engineer’s expression the exchange would probably have been fit to take the paintwork off the inside of the shuttle, at least on his part.  Trip said nothing, however.  The look on his face mingled pugnacity and sullen, reluctant acceptance.

“It is an entirely logical course of action,” T'Pol pointed out, in the sort of tone that suggested she was trying to reason with a recalcitrant five-year-old.  “We have no other way to compel Gyarven to leave Lieutenant Reed’s body.”

“Granted.”  He spoke through shut teeth.  “But in case you hadn’t noticed, Gyarven has this neat little parlor trick of exchanging ‘hosts.’  You kill Malcolm – for the sake of argument, let’s say you do – and then what happens?  Gyarven gets you instead, and I’m down two officers instead of one!”

“With all due respect to Mister Reed, he is human.  I am not.  I believe that I would be able to resist Gyarven’s desire to take over my mind.”

Archer glanced at Trip again.  He had his arms crossed across his chest.  His mouth was shut tightly.

“So what makes you think so?”

“Gyarven is remarkable, but he is not all-powerful.  For instance, he was unable to force Lieutenant Reed to articulate abusive language towards you and Ensign Sato.”

“Didn’t stop him givin’ me plenty,” growled Trip.

“I have already mentioned that I examined the recordings from Sickbay, Commander.  Although his attitude to you was lacking in the appropriate respect, there were certain words that were not uttered in English.”  Having squashed that particular argument, she turned back towards the captain.  “I have fought practice bouts against the lieutenant many times.  Although certainly extremely skilled in hand-to-hand combat, he has not studied _Ke-ta-yatar._ ”

“And you’re going to tell me what that is, of course.”

For the first time, she blinked.  “There are many forms of martial arts taught in the Vulcan Institute of Defensive Arts, Captain.  One of the commonest, and the most ancient, is the _Ke-tarya_ , though in modern times this is chiefly used as part of an exercise regime.  I have given Mister Reed certain insights into this, and he is aware of it.  However, there is another form of it that I did not see reason to mention.  The Ke-ta-yatar was designed specifically with the intention of killing one’s opponent.”

A small, cold silence fell in the Ready Room.

“He does not know it, and I have reason to believe he will find it hard to oppose.”  She went on after a moment, her voice very level.  “I am proficient in it.  I would not suggest this idea if I were not.”

He put his joined hands silently on the desk in front of him and studied them.

“There’s one thing you may not have given enough consideration to.”

“And what is that, Captain?”

“It’s not Malcolm you’d be fighting.”  He looked up.  “It’s _Gyarven_.  A man who’s spent the best part of two thousand years in one fight for his life after another.  Granted, each host he inhabited had to die eventually, and to go by the way he’s reacted here he feels pain just like we do – and wants to avoid it if possible.  But I doubt that whatever training you may have had, it’s anything like the training _he’s_ had.”

“He is not invincible, sir.”  Her voice was steady.  “When he first took over the lieutenant’s body, he was briefly confused.  He admitted to you that owing to the device’s conditioning he thought he was facing an opponent in hand-to-hand combat as opposed to a fellow-officer.  He obviously has either limited access to, or limited interest in, Mister Reed’s knowledge or he would have understood the situation immediately.  The lieutenant has been trained in resisting interrogation; he may have used that training to protect what he knows, insofar as humans are capable of doing so.  But we may accept it as a reasonable premise that Gyarven does not, as yet, know that I exist.”

“I’d actually call that a _guess,_ ” Trip broke in angrily.

“Perhaps,” she conceded quietly.  “But if offered a bargain tempting enough, he may decide it worthwhile to accept a challenge to fight; our condition being that if he loses, he surrenders his occupation of the lieutenant’s body.”

“And if he _wins?_ ” The captain deliberately made his voice harsh.

“Then you use the ship’s phase cannons.”  A glance passed between her and Trip.  Tucker’s mouth was now compressed white.  “It would be unthinkable to hand over the crew, and I imagine you have already reached the conclusion that to abandon Lieutenant Reed alive, possessed, and sentient would be lacking in mercy.  The same reasoning would apply to me.  Gyarven must not leave this planet.  The conclusion is obvious.  Not honorable, but obvious.”

“So.  I offer him a deal I don’t intend to keep, and then, worst case scenario, I end up a lying son of a bitch with  a vaporized XO and weapons officer.”

“But you have saved the ship and the rest of the crew, and eradicated a threat to unknown but potentially enormous numbers of innocent people should Gyarven use either Lieutenant Reed or myself as a vehicle to escape aboard this ship or any other and continue an existence of predation on other intelligent life forms.  However, I am confident the situation will not arise.  We have already established that he believes that a bargain should be honored once it is made.  I regard it as unlikely in the extreme that were he to lose he would break his word.”

“Unlikely, but not impossible.”

She inclined her head.  “I can offer no guarantees on that score.”

He ruminated for a while longer, trying to emulate her dispassion.

“I’m not buying what benefit we get from getting Malcolm’s body back.”  It sounded heartless that way, but he knew she would be thinking of the welfare of the ship as well as of the armory officer in question, and so must he.

“The Ke-ta-yatar offers numerous techniques for killing one’s opponent, Captain.  Several would be specifically suitable for my purpose.  Brain damage begins to occur after breathing has been suspended for four minutes, but Gyarven probably does not know we have a transporter on board; he has only seen the shuttle in action.  _Enterprise_ is fully capable of monitoring Lieutenant Reed’s life signs.  As soon as they have ceased, he must be brought back up, and Dr. Phlox should be on standby to begin treatment at once.”

“Right.”  Trip’s blue eyes were blazing with fear and rage.  “You kill Malcolm, we rescue him, Gyarven decides he’s changed his mind about keepin’ his promise.  He tries takin’ you over and you stop him – _if_ you can do it.  So then what?”

“He has the device,” she said simply.  “He has the choice.  He can die with me, or return to stasis.  If he breaks his word and attempts to take me over, he will realize that.”  She turned towards the chief engineer, and her expression was now hard to read.  “But in order to convince him of that, I must believe that it is the truth.  I must believe absolutely that you will neither rescue me nor allow me to live.”

“ _Jesus Christ, T'Pol!”_   He spun around and faced the wall.  His shoulders were quivering with tension.

The captain unclasped his hands, lifted them and put them across his face for a moment to help him concentrate.   One thing, however, he remembered quite clearly.

“The eight people on his ship who decided not to risk the crash landing put themselves back into their ‘devices’.  And if I remember correctly, that involved ‘ _terminating’_ their hosts.”

“True.  But we have no idea what ‘terminate’ would mean in that context.  One would think that they would hope and expect to be reunited if the hosts survived the crash.  In that case, it would be illogical for the hosts to have suffered any damage – at a guess, the parasites would regard them as having had their control functions temporarily removed.  I, on the other hand, have my own control functions.”

“Sonofabitch!”  Trip’s hard-held temper exploded and he whirled around again.  “Definitions – you’re riskin’ your life on _definitions!”_

“I am risking my life, yes.  But my reasoning is sound, based on logical conclusions.  I would not propose such a course of action unless I believed that it had a better than average chance of success.”

“Are you honestly tellin’ us you think _Malcolm_ would think it was worth the risk?”

“Probably not.  It has been my observation that Lieutenant Reed has always considered himself singularly expendable in comparison to any other member of the crew.”

_She got that right._ Archer rubbed his eyes wearily with the heels of his hands.  He knew damned well what Malcolm’s advice would be: _Dump me down there and get the hell out of here._

“And how would we know?” he asked, letting them fall to the desk again.  “How would we know he’d given up?  How would we know if it was just you, afterwards?”

The brown eyes met his gaze steadily.  “You would have to trust me.”


	13. Chapter 13

The prisoner had been perfectly well behaved all morning.  His only request had been for something to help him pass the time. The subject matter of most of Lieutenant Reed’s personal library had been deemed far too technically informative for non-Starfleet eyes, but after once again giving a promise of good behavior, he’d been provided with a heavily secured PADD containing a couple of bland movies guaranteed to give him a rather strange impression of Human behavior.

Archer supposed that, given the fact that Gyarven appeared to be virtually immortal, wasting time was low on his list of concerns.  He had all the time in the Universe to waste.  Boredom couldn’t be all that pleasant if he was attuned to the restless nature of the mind he was now inhabiting, but that appeared to have been alleviated for the present.  He was seated comfortably on the bed in the brig, eating a sandwich and watching the movie.

“Good afternoon, Captain!”  The easy smile looked out of place on Malcolm’s normally sternly controlled features.  “Have you decided yet what to do with me?”

“Not entirely.”  He came to a halt outside the inner door, wishing he could see through that smile as easily as he could through the reinforced glass that separated them.  Wishing, too, that he didn’t have to go through with this; that there was some way any of them could think of that didn’t involve him offering this crooked deal to a being who – whatever his other failings – believed that bargains were for keeping.

But if it came to a choice between his own honor and the safety of his crew, that was no choice at all.

Gyarven laid down the PADD, after pausing the playback carefully so that he wouldn’t miss any of it.

“It seems to me your options are limited.  You obviously can’t stay here forever.  I’d imagine your superiors – I take it you have superiors – would have something to say about that.”

“True,” admitted Archer heavily.

“So you have two options, as far as my fate is concerned.  Take me with you, or leave me here.”  He cocked an intelligent eyebrow.  “Of course, each option has two sub-categories: ‘alive’ or ‘dead’.”  With a sudden swift movement he got to his feet, though he didn’t approach the door.  “You naturally want your officer back; on a ship of exploration, you probably already know that not everyone you meet is going to be friendly.  He must be good at his job, or he wouldn’t be here.  So losing him – leaving him – isn’t your ideal solution.  In whatever condition.”

No reply.  The captain stared at him, wondering how he could sound so much like he was weighing up some intellectual theory he really didn’t give that much of a damn about.

“On the other hand,” Gyarven pursued, “I’ve been honest; I’ve kept my word.  No one on your ship has been harmed.  But once we’re away from here, if you choose to take me with you, all bets are off.  I’ll seek my freedom in whatever way I can. 

“I’ll offer you a bargain now.  Let me go, on the first trade planet you come to, and I’ll vanish.  When I find another suitable host with an appropriate _llyagar_ ” – a tiny spasm of anger crossed his face – “I’ll promise to release your officer at once.  He can find his way back to you.  No one need ever be the wiser.  And, of course, you have my word that I won’t harm your ship or its crew in any way in the meantime.”

That one strange word killed the captain’s lingering indecision, even before Hoshi’s voice through the tiny earpiece he was wearing translated _llyagar_ as ‘civilisation.’  Malcolm was still there, still fighting; still trying to steer a starship by plunging a wooden tiller into its plasma exhaust.  But even the annihilation of a piece of wood could leave a signature that could be read by eyes that were looking for it.

He folded his arms.  “I’ve got an alternative suggestion.”

“Oh?”  The prisoner strolled across to the door.  “Enlighten me.”

“You want your freedom.  Are you willing to fight for it?”

The gray eyes opened wide.  Was he imagining the flash of absolute horror?

“My, my, Captain.  You want him back very badly.  Are you lovers?”

“No.”

“Hmm.”  The eyes narrowed again.  “ _Fe hyarda s’de –_ I take it there are – _haraxeh –_ conditions.”

“Certainly.”  Archer put all the conviction he could muster into his tone.  “It’s a straight bargain.  If my contender defeats you, you give up my lieutenant, _unharmed_ , and take to your device.  If you defeat my contender, we disable the ship, stay here and you use me and my crew as a host pool.”  He breathed hard; the words were almost choking him even as he uttered them.  “I know it’d be a while before we made up any size of a population, but you’d know we were available when you needed us.”

Gyarven turned away and walked to the far wall and back, looking thoughtful.

“I like you, Captain.  You’re of a different caliber than  that fool Haz’ke-jael, even though you’re offering me the same payment.  So just in order for both of us to understand the stakes honestly, I’ll let you have a few words with someone you might want to speak to.”

He blinked, and for a moment his face went absolutely blank.  Then it contorted into an expression that was far more familiar to the watching captain.

“Captain – you mustn’t do this!”  Malcolm slammed his fists on the door.  “For pity’s sake, don’t take the risk.  Just leave me and go!  He – you don’t know what he is!”

“I think I do.”  He took the half-step forward that would bring him right up against the glass, and tried to project reassurance into the agonized gaze at the other side of it.  “Malcolm.  Trust me.”

“Sir, I can’t help – I’ve tried everything, but I can’t – he’s too strong–”

“I know.  I understand.  Don’t blame yourself.  Whatever happens, I don’t want you to blame yourself.”  _But you will, whatever I say.  If this goes south, the only one blaming himself more will be me._

“Captain, _no!_   For crying out loud, it’s bloody _suicide_ –”

Another blink.  Another blank.  The silence was filled with an imaginary voice, cursing and imploring him in an English accent not to risk the ship on a gamble with loaded dice for a prize that wasn’t worth winning.

_That’s not your decision to make, Malcolm.  This one’s all mine._

Gyarven leaned casually against the dividing wall between the cells, his arms folded.  “So there you have it, Captain.  Just in case you were thinking there might be any help from that quarter.  I suggest you go away and have another little think about this bargain of yours, because once it’s made, it’s made.  I take what I’m owed.  No more, no less.”

Archer swallowed.  There was no saliva in his mouth whatsoever.  “I haven’t changed my mind.”

A pause.  “You won’t mind me wanting a little clarification on my own account.  As the one accepting the challenge, in my culture that entitles me to choose the weapons and the battleground.  Would that be acceptable in your culture?”

The fact that he’d mentioned _battleground_ caused the first faint stir of hope in what was beginning to feel like a hollow pit of dread.  “I guess we could compromise on the weapons.  You choose what you want, my challenger does the same.  Both of you have the right to object to the first, but if you do then the second stands.”

“No technology.”  How soft the English voice was; it was almost soothing.  “No interference from anyone else during the fight.  No last-minute rescues when you realize I’m going to win.”

“No technology.  No interference from anyone else.  No rescues.” _It’s not a ‘rescue’ we’re planning._

Gyarven moved on to another topic.  ”How many people are aboard this ship?”

“Eighty-five crew in total.  And a dog.”  He felt like a traitor, mentioning Porthos.  But at a guess, a beagle would be of little interest as a host anyway.  “Enough to make a decent gene pool.”

The dark head inclined gently.  “And suitable breeding potential?”

_Food production._ Nausea roiled in his stomach. If this went wrong… “We have healthy women on board.  I’d guess it wouldn’t be a problem.” 

As Gyarven contemplated him, he roused himself to add sharply, “I’d want your word that I’d be allowed to send my superiors a message.  No rescue attempts.  No ships sent here.  I won’t have us used as bait.”

A nod.  “I’d have been disappointed if you hadn’t made that stipulation.  Well, eighty-five should suit my purposes well enough, Captain.  Very well.  If you’re sure you won’t change your mind, I accept.”

“It’s a deal.”

Now the words were out, Archer achieved something that approximated peace, if not quite as he’d always understood the word. 

“So all that we have to settle is a time and a place.  I guess you’ll want ‘time’ to be as soon as possible.”

“I don’t see that either of us gains anything by delay.” The man opposite him had straightened up.  His demeanor had changed.  He was no longer lounging, casual; he was … waiting.  Eager.

“True.  So where do you want to hold the party?”

A shrug.  “Call me sentimental. I’ve an attachment to the old place.  I fought all my important battles there.”

“You’re talking about the arena down on the planet.”  It took all of the captain’s self-command not to betray the relief that could so easily and so prematurely become triumph.

It hadn’t taken Trip and T'Pol long to discover where the parasite’s device was hidden: it was carefully concealed in a specially constructed niche a couple of centimeters behind the wall just beneath the ‘executive box’ they’d described.  They hadn’t disturbed it in any way, just in case Gyarven might see the marks of investigation and call foul if something went wrong with it, but their scanners had registered its energy signature.  Whether this radiation had any effect on its owner when he was in its proximity was impossible to say.  Trip had certainly raised this possibility – at some volume – during debriefing, but T'Pol had dismissed it.  Needless to say, this hadn’t gone down too well.

Still, the fact remained that for some reason (which was actually rather unlikely to be a sentimental one), Gyarven wanted to fight his duel in close proximity to it.  Admittedly this could be because he wanted to have it on hand in case he lost, but then he evidently didn’t expect to lose.  So had he guessed that they knew where it was?

Still, that hardly mattered.  He had the call, and he’d made it.  They could do nothing now except await the consequences.

“And my opponent?” inquired Gyarven politely.

“If you don’t mind, I’d rather not go into the details.  That’s how we do it on our world.  We’ll fly them down to join you when the fight’s about to start.”

“Your officer really hasn’t told me anything, Captain.  As a matter of fact he’s been downright uncooperative.  You needn’t be afraid that I’ll recognize anyone you name.”

“‘Downright uncooperative’ is exactly what I’d expect him to be under the circumstances.”  A grim smile.  There were few members of his crew who’d do a more sterling job of being utterly and completely uncooperative than Lieutenant Malcolm Reed.  “So it seems the last thing we have to arrange is a time.”

The prisoner considered.  “Are we in a geostationary orbit above Kel-kallar?”

“Yes.”

“So from what I’ve observed of your ship’s routine I’d imagine we’re … sometime around mid-afternoon, planetary time.”

“Not far past mid-day.”  Ship time followed Earth hours, and the two planets’ revolutions were not identical.  Nevertheless the accuracy of the guess was faintly chilling.  Whatever else Gyarven lacked, his powers of observation and deduction were almost uncanny.

“Then shall we agree an hour before sunset?” 

Slightly startled and suspicious at being offered the chance to disagree, as opposed to being presented with a flat statement, Archer considered the ramifications.  Weather reports suggested that conditions down on the planet were unlikely to change.  The long rays of the sunlight at that hour – if any penetrated into that sunken arena his officers had described – could be an advantage to either fighter, depending on their situation.  No rain had fallen during the day.  The coarse sand underfoot would be dry, and therefore probably slippery, but they’d both have to contend with that.

“You can consult your contender if you wish,” Gyarven added.

“Thank you.”  In all honesty he didn’t know what difference conditions would make to T'Pol’s readiness to fight; it would probably be best to give her the choice.

Not wishing to take a chance on how good the prisoner’s hearing was, the captain slipped out of the brig and used the comm station a little way up the corridor.  It transpired that the time was immaterial to his XO; she would fight whenever and wherever. 

He took what comfort he could from her impassive reaction to the question.  “I want you to stand down from duty, effective immediately,” he told her.  “If there are any preparations you want to make…”

“I am entirely prepared, Captain.  But it will be agreeable to spend a little time meditating.”

“Sounds like a good idea.  Archer out.”  He closed the link and thought briefly about contacting Trip, but decided against it.  The chief engineer would probably have a lot of opinions about a lot of things right now, and most of them wouldn’t be fit to be aired on an open channel.

He walked back to the brig.  Gyarven had sat down on the bunk again and was waiting, legs crossed and a faint look of expectancy on his face.

“Okay.  An hour before sunset,” he said.  “When do you want us to fly you down?”

“I think you’ll be glad to see me off your ship.”  The glimmer of a smile.  “As soon as your transport’s ready, Captain, I’ll go.  And I’ll be waiting – an hour before sunset.”

“We’ll be there.” 


	14. Chapter 14

Travis had departed with Shuttlepod 1, taking Gyarven down to the planet’s surface.  Although he’d been a bit apprehensive-looking as he stepped into the craft (rumor would doubtless have flown around the ship as though it had wings, and each theory would have been more fantastic than the last), nobody seriously doubted that the young pilot would soon be flying it back into the shuttlebay, minus his passenger and none the worse for the experience.

Trip watched it go, and wondered whether it was humanly possible to get his feelings right now sorted out into any kind of order.

If Jon had been the one to suggest this crazy duel idea he’d have recruited Phlox to have the captain certified unfit for duty.  But give him his due, not only had he not suggested it, he’d had to be talked pretty hard into agreeing with it at all.  He still didn’t like it, that was obvious, but T'Pol’s logic and confidence were hard to withstand.

She said she could do this.

Maybe she could.

Maybe he just didn’t want to believe her.

He’d never been any good at languages, and Vulcan in particular was a tongue-twister at the best of times.  This ke-ta-whateveryacallit – a martial art _specifically designed_ for killing?  Surely killing your opponent was an admission that logic – and everything else – had failed?  He couldn’t imagine Vulcans making an admission like that.  Above all, he couldn’t imagine T'Pol being coached in the ways of deliberately killing an opponent – _killing_ , not simply disabling or disarming.  Being trained to set out purposefully intending to take the life of the person she was fighting.  The thought of it made his gorge rise.  He knew that way back in their history her people had gone through some pretty grim stages of development, but this was a whole different ball game.

He hung around Engineering for a while, but for possibly the first time in his life, his heart wasn’t in it.  Then he went up to the Bridge, but the captain wasn’t there (not that he was particularly sorry about that). He saw Hoshi sitting dutifully at her station, her face as pale and drawn as if she were awaiting execution herself.

“Hey, Hosh’, how’re you holdin’ up?” he asked softly, pretending that he was checking something on the comm board.  “The cap’n keepin’ you posted?”

“He’s told me some of it, sir.”  Her fingers on the switches were deft, but there were no communications to intercept until Travis contacted them to confirm approach vectors.

“Look.  If you want to go wait somewhere quiet till…”

“Till what, Trip?”  Suddenly her hands were completely still.  “Till they beam his body up, just hoping we can revive him?”

It figured that the captain wouldn’t have told her the whole deal about the dreadful offer he’d made in order to coax Gyarven into fighting at all.

_Slaves.  Hosts.  Food-producing machines._

Because that’s what they’d all be, if this went wrong.

Suddenly he couldn’t cope with it any more.

He spun away from the console.

She was in her room.  He had the door control overrides.  He didn’t even hit the chime, just strode in. 

She was meditating, and she was so goddamn beautiful, and she was going to die down there.

“I can’t let you do this.  I should never have let you talk Jon into it.”

She looked up.  Her reactions were slightly sluggish, as though she’d been somewhere very far away and took time to return.

“We have no choice.  The bargain has been made.”

“No.  Actually, we _do_ have a goddamn choice!” he shouted.  “We have a functioning warp engine over _there_ ,” he pointed, “and we have helm control up _there_ , and we have one goddamn officer down _there,_ ” he pointed again, “who’d kick our damned butts from here to Jupiter Station for takin’ this kind of a risk.  And considerin’ you Vulcans are so hot on this ‘the needs of the many outweigh the needs of the few… or the one’ business, you still haven’t told me one good goddamn reason why you’re so set on doin’ this.  Are you in love with him or somethin’?”

“I have no emotional attachment to Lieutenant Reed.”  She spoke slowly and steadily.  “My sole concern is the welfare of this ship, which needs a weapons and tactical officer with his expertise.  The captain agrees with me and has agreed that the contest should go ahead.”

Just as slowly and steadily, she rose to her feet.  “I am sorry that you evidently have no faith in my ability to succeed in this, Commander.  But the fact remains that you are wrong.”

His rage died as swiftly as it had arisen.  He leaned against the wall, suddenly so exhausted it was all he could do to stand up.  “I hope you’re right,” he said in despair.  “For all our sakes, T'Pol, I hope you’re right.”

“Trip.”  She came to a halt in front of him.  Her eyes were grave, brown, beautiful.  Her whole face was beautiful; he couldn’t bear to think of it contorted as a killing blow went home. “I know that I have gambled the lives of everyone on board on this.  I do not mean to let you down.”

“Well, I hope you know I’ll never speak to you again if you lose.”  If gallows humor was all he could find, it was better than yelling at her; and better by far than letting the truth spill out, because whatever way the gamble worked out he was going nowhere fast with this.

An impulse took hold of him.  He delved in the small pocket on his left upper arm sleeve, and brought out a small, worn metal ring.  “Here.  Take this for luck.”

Her eyebrows rose; she put out a hand and took it.  It lay in her palm, gleaming dully.   “It is a seal of some sort.”

“Yeah.  From the first engine I ever repaired.  The outboard motor on my cousin’s boat.  He bet me twenty dollars I couldn’t make it work.”

“I conclude that you won your bet.”

“Sure did.  Not bad for a ten-year old.”  Somehow he achieved a grin.  “I kept that to remind me that you don’t need other people to believe in you as long as you believe in yourself.”

“I will bring it back to you.”

“I’ll hold you to that.”


	15. Chapter 15

The arena was already in shadow.

She listened to the commander’s footsteps retreating.  Within moments the shuttle had lifted off.  Its engine howled as it made all speed back towards the ship.

Was it utterly illogical of her to hope that he made it back in time?  After all, the sensation – probably an incredibly brief one – of being vaporized by a phase cannon blast would be the same, no matter whose finger was on the firing button.

Nevertheless.

She was not afraid, precisely.  She had faced death before.  Her hours of meditation had helped to center her correctly.  Her affairs had been left in order, just in case her confidence was misplaced; despite Commander Tucker’s outburst, she was fully aware of the magnitude of the risk she was taking, not only on her own behalf, but also on behalf  of the rest of the ship’s crew, who would pay a worse penalty than her own if she lost and if, by some mischance, Gyarven had detected the captain’s intentions and had ways of ensuring the deal was kept after all.  On the whole, however, she felt justified.  A tactical officer of Lieutenant Reed’s caliber was a vital asset to the ship, and could be the difference between life and death for them all in a hostile situation.  However great the risk she was taking, it was a _calculated_ one.  She was faintly puzzled by the chief engineer’s inability to apply the same mathematical analysis to risk factors in this situation as he did in dealing with the ship’s mechanical systems, where he accepted and dealt with them on a daily basis without becoming nearly so emotional about it.  Possibly it was because he had no way to assess her skill levels, whereas he had enormous (and probably justified) respect for those of her opponent.

It would pay her to have the same.  After all, when it came to experience, he was indeed in an entirely different category.

She glanced down at the small metal seal the commander had given her.  She was familiar with the human concept of wishing someone luck, although logic suggested it conveyed no actual tangible benefit.  His entrusting her with an object that clearly held such significance for him was touching, if inexplicable.  She should take care not to let anything happen to it so that she could return it to him safely afterwards.

Her catsuit had no pockets; the ring was too large to fit safely on any of her fingers.  She slipped it into the only place she could think of, the cup of her catsuit’s built-in bra.  The fact that she placed it in the side above where her heart would have been if she’d been Human instead of Vulcan was, of course, no more than a coincidence.

The only other thing she had brought with her was her communicator.  She placed it carefully in a niche in a carved plaque on the wall and took note of its exact location among the others around the arena.  If all went as planned, she would have exactly five minutes in which to activate it.

“A woman!”

The soft English voice came from the shadows behind her.  She turned without haste to face him.  If he’d meant to attack her without due warning given, she’d already be dead.

“Your powers of observation are obviously functioning,” she said, with only mild irony.

“It won’t save you, you know.”  He walked forward, studying her narrowly.

He had ripped off the top half of the lieutenant’s uniform, as well as its legs just above the knee.  The undershirt was gone altogether.  He was also barefoot.  He was carrying a long-bladed knife, with one smooth and one serrated edge.  It looked old, but both of the edges had been polished recently and were absolutely functional.

He had used some kind of plant dye to paint a symbol on his left breast and right cheekbone.  A stripe of it caked his hair back from his right temple.

“I was not assuming it would,” she replied.  “You were at pains to inform the captain that you are no respecter of any limiting indicators in your prospective victims.”

He was close enough now to notice smaller differences.

“And not human,” he said thoughtfully.  “Captain Archer didn’t mention that.”

“I believe the appropriate response to that is, ‘You didn’t ask.’”

He laughed aloud at that.  “True.  He’s cleverer than I thought.  Or not, depending on how good you are – given the circumstances.”

“The captain would not have entrusted such a task to anyone he did not deem fit to fulfill it.”

A narrow bank of clouds had come across the sky in the west.  The light dimmed a little as the sun sank slowly behind it.

He was perhaps two body-lengths away from her when he halted.  “Weapons.”  He held the knife out for her to examine, balancing it across his palm.  There was absolutely no chance of her reaching him before it was ready for use; and besides, she was not certain that he would regard defeat in that way as being valid by the terms of the agreement.

She spread her hands, showing them empty.  His eyes flickered across her catsuit.  She had nowhere to hide anything.  He nodded acceptance, just as she had done.

“I don’t know if your people have any particular rituals on these occasions.”  He walked past her and took up a position just in front of the ‘executive box’ – some three meters from where she and Trip had detected his device buried in the wall.  She had no means of knowing whether he was deriving some kind of stimulation from it, or whether his choosing to take stance there was no more than a superstitious ritual intended to invoke ‘luck’.  It was unlikely to be a coincidence.  “Please feel free.  I’ll wait till you’re ready.”

“I am quite prepared.  I suggest that we waste no more time.”  She moved to face him, careful to keep him between her and the wall.  If the device was indeed emitting some kind of radiation it was unlikely to have a favorable effect on his opponent.  On either count, it would be wise to remove him from its vicinity as soon as possible.

“I’m sure you’ll have acquainted the captain with your wishes for the disposal of your body.  Rest assured, I’ll allow whatever you specify to be carried out.”

“Of course.  But since the question will not arise, it is a purely academic issue.”

The gray eyes sparkled with genuine delight.  “It’s a long time since I had an opponent worth fighting.  I’ll make it quick, and as painless as I can.”

“The promise is mutual.”

“I’m sure.”  He lifted the dagger level with his face and kissed the blade lightly before lowering it to a position of readiness before his stomach.  “ _Exearru thirx!”_

They circled quickly, like mirror images, each seeking to assess the strengths and weaknesses of the other.  A couple of minor feints were dutifully executed and as dutifully evaded; the sound of her boots on the scattered paving stones echoed off the high walls. 

His bare feet made no sound.

His first attack came without warning.  For a human, he was shockingly fast.  The edge of the blade was a silver blur at the edge of his flying body, and possibly only her VDA training saved her from having her belly laid open.  Even so, she didn’t escape unscathed.  As she spun aside from the blow, the catsuit parted above a long green line just above her navel.

She landed rolling, and kept going as he spun around and leaped after her.  The knife sank into the sand just beside her face, and she had to stop herself from striking upwards at him in the move that was designed to snap his skull backwards off his spinal column; instead, she planted her feet in his guts and hurled him forward along the path of his own momentum.

He fell hard, but used his arms to absorb some of the impact.  Almost before he’d landed his feet had got purchase and were propelling him forward and up again; he scrambled away as she launched herself after him.  She spared a brief thought that having an _ahn’woon_ would have been useful, but doubtless he had encountered others who had used some variant of such a simple weapon – he would have been prepared for what it could do.  On the other hand, it was unlikely in the extreme that he would have encountered any practitioners of _Ke-ta-yatar_.  Doubtless this world, like many others, had developed its own varieties of martial arts, but proficiency against one was not necessarily a guard against others.

He ran, and she pursued him.  She was fully aware that this was no more a sign of fear or panic than anything else he had done so far, and she was not taken by surprise when what looked like a stumble over a sticking-up paving stone suddenly turned into a roll from which he emerged blade-first, striking up hard and fast.  Thanks to being ready for such a move, she leaped high to evade it.  Fierce pain along her inner right thigh said she hadn’t been entirely successful, but it was only a flesh wound and would do nothing to impede her – at least at first, though blood loss could be a problem if the duel went on for any length of time.

This was not something she intended to allow to happen.

Her fight up till now had been largely a defensive one.  It was time for that to change.

She landed lightly on her uninjured leg, but instead of running onwards she kicked herself straight into a pivot.  He was already lunging after her, and the side of her foot slammed into the side of his head, hurling him sideways.

It was a classic _Ke-ta-yatar_ move, requiring enormous strength and flexibility.  She had both, and used them to the full.

For all his experience, he had not expected it.  The impact fetched a gasp out of him, followed by a grunt as he landed hard on the packed sand.

She had deliberately spun in an anti-clockwise direction, and her momentum carried her with him.  His right arm was underneath him, but he twisted to bring it flashing up towards her again, fending off the expected attack.

This was exactly what she wanted.  She seized his knife wrist in her left hand, feeling the blade bite deep into the muscle of her forearm. 

He had not realized how strong she was.  Even with the knife in her she forced his arm back down, her grip so powerful he couldn’t break it to withdraw the blade and use it again.  He thrust viciously at her with his left hand, rigid fingers aiming for the eyes, a move she countered by snatching hold of the wrist and forcing the arm back on itself so savagely that the elbow joint dislocated with a crack.

He was still fighting, still struggling, still dangerous; curled up to protect his vulnerable belly, but capable of delivering a kick that would rupture her through to the spine if he could get one in.

She was not going to give him the chance.

“I am sorry, Lieutenant,” she gasped. 

With a savagery that drew a choked scream from him she twisted his left wrist so hard that the dislocated elbow joint rotated with an audible grinding of bone.  The pain, as she had anticipated, swamped his entire brain for just the split second she needed to get her right hand free.  Her mental preparation was complete; it needed no more than the intention to channel all of her strength through the heel of that hand.

Then she hit him with it, squarely in the center of his chest.

His sternum broke and crashed into the heart behind it, killing him instantly.


	16. Chapter 16

He died with a gasp of indrawn breath.  She saw the gray eyes go glassy and roll half-closed, the tight muscles of his face slacken.  His suddenly lax fingers released the haft of the knife and slid to the ground.  All resistance in his body ended.

It was important to keep the blade lodged in her arm; withdrawing it would cause catastrophic bleeding from any major blood vessels it had severed.  Grimacing with the pain, she took hold of the hilt and held it still as she rose with difficulty from the still body on the ground.

She moved a couple of paces backwards.  In her exhaustion it seemed to her that the sightless eyes were staring at her as the transporter beam dissolved the body into its component atoms and lifted it back to the ship.

Next moment she found herself in something that resembled her white space, though she had not consciously placed herself there.

Gyarven stood opposite her.

He had taken on a humanoid form, though as she absorbed the details she realized that this might as easily be a construction from her own mind as anything he had consciously chosen to assume.  He was taller than Lieutenant Reed – taller, indeed, than Captain Archer – and powerfully built, especially around the shoulders.  The naked body was covered in rough, coarse hair; the long fingers and toes had claws instead of nails. 

The greatest variation was in the head.  Most of its ‘humanity’ was submerged in the cunning, cruel mask of a seh’lat.

He walked around her slowly.  She could feel his mind touching hers, gently and at many points.  Her mental shields were up, ready for the expected invasion and braced to resist it.

**_‘I knew you would be a worthy opponent.’_ **

The voice in her mind spoke as lightly as though they had not just fought a duel to the death, which he had lost.

_‘I knew you would be difficult to beat.’_ She inclined her head.  _‘Nevertheless, I have done it.’_

**_‘Comprehensively.’_** He laughed softly.  **_‘What a combination we would make!’_**

_‘Indeed.  But that was not the bargain the captain offered you.’_

**_‘Ah.  The bargain.’_** A brief pause.  The intent yellow eyes became thoughtful.  **_‘The bargain that your captain made to surrender more than eighty innocent men and women to me, in return for this duel.  I wonder if he would have kept it, if you had lost.’_**

_‘I did not lose_.’  The voice had been musing, not asking.

**_‘He is an honorable man.  Who doubtless understands that there is more than one kind of honor.’_** The contemplative voice grew softer; the intangible fingers of curiosity probed more closely.  **_‘Vulcan.  So much, controlled so firmly.  You are wise._**   **_So much emotion, so strong … I could feed well!’_**

Horror crept.  The thought of this being, this … parasite … let loose on Vulcan itself….  The voice sharpened again suddenly.   ** _‘So.  You think I will return tamely to the device, with this body available that is even more apt to my purposes than the other?’_**

_‘Captain Archer foresaw the possibility that you would not.’_ She looked towards the communicator.  The clock was ticking.  _‘If I do not contact the ship within two minutes from now, they will fire the phase cannons at any humanoid biosigns within five kilometers of this arena.’_

**_‘I could make you contact the ship,’_** he reflected _. **‘Assure them that all is well.  That I have kept my promise.’**_

_‘You could make me use the communicator, perhaps,’_ she said levelly.  _‘But you could not make Lieutenant Reed abuse those he loves.  You will not make me lie to those I respect.  And besides, the question will not arise.’_

**_‘You think not?’_ **

_‘No.  Because you take what you are owed.  No more, no less.’_

There was another tiny pause.  And then a sigh.

**_‘So brief a time, after so long,’_** he said a little sadly.  **_‘Live long and prosper, T'Pol of Vulcan.’_**

And she was alone.

*               *               *

 

She crossed the arena with long strides and snatched up the communicator with her right hand; she had to release her grip of the knife to do so, but she rested the hilt lightly against the wall to steady it instead.  According to her reckoning, she had perhaps ten seconds to live.

“T'Pol to _Enterprise_ , come in.”

“T'Pol.”  Captain Archer’s voice, cracking with strain.  “Are you okay?”

“Yes, Captain.  Although I am in need of urgent medical attention.”  For the first time she had leisure to notice the agony of the blade buried in her arm, and the lesser pain of the cuts in her stomach and thigh; the one on her stomach was shallow, but that on her thigh was not.  He had been aiming for the femoral artery, and he hadn’t been far off reaching it.  The front of her catsuit was already slick with the blood that had welled out of her forearm as she held it cradled against her chest.  “I would request your using the transporter.”

She heard him snapping out the orders.

“We’ve got the medical team standing by for you.  Don’t you dare give up on us, and that’s an order!”

“Understood.”  The world around her was going gray and distant.  She leaned against the wall to steady herself.  It would be most unwise to fall; the jolt would almost certainly dislodge the knife.  But she doubted whether she still had the physical coordination left to sit down.

She heard the high note of the transporter, but everything was going away.  Still, she had saved the ship.

Trip caught her as she materialized on the transporter pad, falling.  And after that, she remembered nothing.

 


	17. Chapter 17

The world was blue.

Blue was Dr Phlox’s eyes, at disconcertingly close proximity.

“So you’re back with us, T’Pol!” he said cheerfully, withdrawing to a more usual distance.

Blue was also Commander Tucker’s eyes, fixed on her from the opposite side of the bio-bed.

There was also hazel.  The captain had evidently been summoned from the Bridge.  Her senior and junior officers looked exhausted.

She tried to speak, but her mouth felt dry and numb. 

“I expect you’re thirsty.”  The doctor brought a cup to her mouth.  She was expecting water, but instead it contained chamomile tea, with just a hint of honey in it and at just the right temperature for drinking.  She wasn’t particularly fond of honey, but its restorative properties were well-established; she sipped at it gratefully.

“Lieutenant Reed?” she asked, when she was reasonably sure she could enunciate properly.

“Alive.  He’ll need to stay in the ICU for a couple of days, but the prognosis is good.”  Phlox looked at her with some severity.  “When you said you were going to kill him, Sub-commander, I thought you had something relatively tame like drowning or suffocating in mind.  I must say it’s the first time I’ve had to carry out open-heart surgery in the transporter room.  I had a most eventful couple of minutes.  _Most_ eventful.” 

“I had every confidence in your expertise, Doctor.  I apologize for the method I was forced to employ; unfortunately my opponent did not afford me the ability to be particularly choosy.”

“And then I had hardly got my rib-spreader in place when you arrived with multiple lacerations and severe blood loss!”  His face was a study in comical indignation.  “I appreciate your faith in my medical skills, but there are times when I think it is just a _little_ reckless!”

“A reckless Vulcan.  I guess that’s one for the history books.”  Captain Archer passed a hand across the lower half of his face, not doing a very good job of hiding the smile on it.  “How are you feeling, T'Pol?”

She took a moment to run an inventory.  Her left arm was heavily strapped up; she assumed that any blood vessels that had been damaged had been repaired, but doubtless there was muscular damage that had to be taken into account, and that would be slower to heal.  Flexion of her stomach muscles indicated the presence of a dressing on it, and she could feel the pressure of more bandaging around her thigh.

“I could be worse,” she replied finally.

“‘You could be worse’?”  Trip was standing with his arms folded, and an outsize grin on his face. 

“Considerably.”  She looked back at him in surprise.  Considering what she’d just been through, she’d gotten off remarkably lightly. 

“Ah, I think you’ve been on this ship too long.  I’ll bet you not one in a thousand Vulcans would’ve answered that question with ‘I could be worse.’”  The captain gave up on the attempt to hide his amusement.  “But you’re right, you could be a hell of a lot worse.  And I’m mighty glad you’re not.  When you’re feeling better we’ll go through what happened down there, but right now I think you need your rest.  There are still a few things we have to talk over.” 

To go by his drawn pallor, she wasn’t the only one who needed rest.  Only now that the terrible threat had been withdrawn from his crew could he relax. No doubt both he and the commander would sleep, as Lieutenant Reed might say, like tops tonight.

“Ensign Sato?” 

“Over there.”  Phlox indicated the curtained-off Intensive Care area.  “Mister Reed’s still sedated, of course, but I never underrate the ability of the brain to register the presence of a loved one, even in patients in coma.  She asked if she could talk to him, and I said it was fine as long as she didn’t disturb you.”

T'Pol thought to herself that relations between herself and the ensign might be somewhat complex for a while.  Humans’ somewhat tenuous grasp on logic might not cope particularly well with the fact that the only way to save the lieutenant had been to cave his chest in.

“I’m sure at some point she’ll wish to express her gratitude to you,” the doctor went on cheerfully.

“Indeed.”  She looked at Trip, who seemed to share her doubt on that particular point.

The captain coughed.  “Well, I’m out of here.  I’m going to grab something to eat and then get me some shut-eye.  Trip?”

“Be with you in a minute, Cap’n.”

Archer glanced from one to the other.  “Well, I’ll be in the Mess.  I’ll get you a coffee and some of whatever’s hot.”  He patted her uninjured arm and walked to the door, where he paused and looked back.  “By the way, you did a hell of a job.”  The door hissed open, and closed behind him.

“That she did,” said Phlox with a grimace.  “Sternum broken into three separate pieces!”  He rolled his eyes expressively.  “Which reminds me, I daresay I’d better look in and see how he’s doing.  Though it does make life _so_ much more peaceful when I have reason to keep him sedated, I must say.”  He nodded benevolently at her and strolled off towards the curtained section, where he slid between the white hangings and was lost to view.

T'Pol and Trip were left looking at one another.

“Guess my lucky charm did the job after all,” he said, smiling down at her.

“Indeed.  Without it I might have ended up severely injured,” she replied, straight-faced.  “Remind me to obtain one for myself.”

“Gratitude, Vulcan-style.”  His grin showed no sign of diminishing, however.

“You have it back?”  Momentary anxiety touched her.  Surely he wouldn’t allude to it so cheerfully if it had been lost?

“Safe and sound.”  He touched the pocket on his arm.  “Liz found it.  Thought I might know what it was.”

This told her two things: one, that he hadn’t been present when her clothing was removed, and two, that he’d been in the immediate vicinity.  It was highly unlikely that Crewman Cutler would have walked around the ship to find him on the off-chance that he might be able to identify a much-worn metal seal.

Her last memory before waking up here in Sickbay was that of his arms seizing her as she finished materializing on the transporter pad.  Unfortunately by that time she had no longer been in any fit state to give the sensation its due appreciation, but what she could remember was really quite remarkably agreeable.

So extremely agreeable, in fact, that she could only think she stood in particularly grave need of a period of protracted and profound meditation to enable her to reassemble her thoughts in the correct order.  As soon as she was released from Sickbay she’d make a point of doing so.

In the meantime, however, she was entitled to a little leeway.  Enough not only to derive a quite illogical amount of satisfaction from that extremely agreeable memory, but also to find herself quite fascinated by how blue the commander’s eyes were.  She was naturally aware that female Human members of the crew found him attractive; now, subjected to a smile that had a gravely unfair amount of charm, she realized exactly why.

The discovery was intensely unnerving. She’d have to meditate on that too.

“I was grateful for the loan of it, T – _Commander_ ,” she corrected herself hastily.  It had occurred to her that he might indeed think her ungrateful, and she didn’t want that.

His smile at that was gentle.  “You’re welcome.”

He turned to go.  Doubtless the captain would be waiting, and wondering why he lingered.  “It’s late.  Phlox’ll be kickin’ my ass for disturbin’ you.”

_You have no idea, Trip._   Fortunately the words were only in her own head.  She told herself that she must have all sorts of medication affecting her system; why else would she want so badly to put out a hand and stop him from leaving?

“I am sorry for all the worry I caused you,” she said impulsively, shocked at herself for the words; why should she apologize for having followed the dictates of logic?

“And I’m sorry for not trustin’ you.”  He turned back again.  As though acting of its own accord, his hand closed around hers where it lay on top of the blanket.  “I’m just glad to see you back safe and sound, T'Pol.  Well.  More or less.”

The medication must have been very powerful indeed.  Instead of passively accepting the grasp so as not to offend him, her hand actually returned it.

“I am glad to be back.  And I would find it agreeable if you could find the time to visit tomorrow after your shift.”

“I’ll do better than that.  I’ll come in and bring you some breakfast.  Plomeek soup?  Got to get your strength back up.”

She blinked.  It was entirely logical; the sooner she could return to her duties the better.  And, of course, Phlox would be busy tending to Lieutenant Reed and anyone else currently requiring his expertise.  Doubtless he would be pleased to have the duty taken from him.

“If you have time, that would be acceptable.”

“I’ll make the time, don’t you worry.”  He winked.  “Now you just lie there and relax.  Get yourself a good night’s sleep, and I’ll see you in the mornin’.”

She watched him walk out of Sickbay.  Thanks to the medication, she realized for the first time what some of those other female crewmembers had been talking about when discussing Commander Tucker’s assets, both coming _and_ going.  The realization made her blush ever so slightly.

The sooner she was off this medication, the better.

 


	18. Chapter 18

“I thought we ought to have this discussion as soon as possible.” 

Captain Archer looked exhausted, thought Phlox, wondering what the chances were of the captain’s accepting an order to go back to bed for the rest of the day.  If he made it an official one, Regulations said the captain would have to obey it, but he didn’t really enjoy employing those kind of tactics when it wasn’t absolutely necessary.  Still, when this meeting was over he’d make a point of asking Archer to return to Sickbay after his shift was done, and at least make sure he got the period of unbroken rest that evening that he so obviously needed.

It was, on the face of it, an extremely unusual place to have a discussion, or at least one of this nature.  However, they didn’t have much option when one of the people involved was still forbidden to stir a foot out of bed, let alone return to duty.

With that in mind, the captain had convened the gathering around Malcolm’s bio-bed.  Sickbay’s doors were locked, and Phlox took one of the chairs – having been so closely involved in the later stages of the affair, he was pleased by the invitation to be involved in the closure of it.

Malcolm had regained consciousness the previous morning.  At first he’d been drowsy and compliant; by lunchtime he was showing signs of boredom.  Come evening, he was complaining.  ‘Always an excellent sign of recovery,’ Phlox had thought complacently, making a note of it in the patient’s records.

The lieutenant had been awake since early this morning.  He and his jailer were currently locked in a battle of wills about whether he should eat breakfast.

Malcolm was going to lose. 

He probably knew that already, but he just wasn’t admitting it.  If he persisted too long, Phlox would simply call in the big guns.  Captain Archer was always ready to back up his MO when it came to crew welfare, even if they weren’t bloody hungry and ‘porridge tastes like shite anyway’.

Still, things hadn’t got to that stage yet.  The cheerful Denobulan remained hopeful that his troublesome patient was too weak as yet to mount a really determined resistance to continued pressure, especially if he was allowed to borrow Ensign Sato from the Bridge to administer it.  The lieutenant would be far too polite to accuse a Human female – and especially one with whom he shared an attachment – of attempting to feed him a foodstuff with the flavor of excrement.  He would be far more inclined to co-operate, in hopes of being rewarded by whatever the Human equivalent was of a Denobulan rose-petal bath, or something along those lines.  (Although any reward that stimulating would have to be deferred, given his condition at present.)

“I don’t think it’s a decision we can avoid,” went on the captain seriously, glancing around at his three senior bridge officers and his MO, who dragged his thoughts from the entrancing subject of rose-petal baths with something of an effort. “I have to ask the question.

“Given what happened to us here – and what so easily _could_ have happened – do we just fly away from here and leave it to happen to somebody else?”

Trip put down the PADD he’d been carrying when he came in.  He glanced at Malcolm. 

The Englishman was lying back on his pillows, semi-upright.  His face was very pale, and his pupils were abnormally dilated, but his eyes were lucid enough, and glittering.

“Just to get it right what you’re askin’, Cap’n.”  Trip spoke levelly.  “You’re suggestin’ we make sure it _can’t_ happen to anyone else.  By carryin’ out a preemptive strike and destroyin’ that device with Gyarven inside it.”

“I’m saying it’s an option.  I’m asking what everybody thinks about it.  The final decision will be mine.”

“It makes perfect sense to me, sir.”  Reed pushed himself slightly more upright with an effort.  His voice was a little hoarse; that would be from the intubation, of course.  One of the other reasons why he wasn’t keen on eating breakfast.  “If everyone else is too squeamish to do the job, route Tactical into Sickbay’s computer terminal and push me over to it.  I’ll make sure our friend won’t be springing his damned surprises on anyone else.”

Phlox was outraged.  “That would be a cowardly attack on a being completely unable to defend himself.  I can’t believe you’re even contemplating such an act, Captain!”

Archer held up a hand.  “I’m contemplating the alternative too, Phlox.  That another ship with an even bigger complement makes landfall and falls into exactly the same trap.  The trap I’d have left waiting open for them, knowing what could happen.”

“He’s the last of his species!  What you’re suggesting is equivalent to _genocide!_ ”

T'Pol had listened in silence.  Yesterday morning she’d been allowed to leave Sickbay, largely because now its other occupant was emerging from sedation it was no longer a place where she could continue to recuperate in peace.  Now she spoke up, heavily.  “The needs of the many still outweigh the needs of the few, Doctor – or the needs of the one.  Even if he is the last of his species, he is still deeply dangerous to any other sentient species he encounters.  Given the right conditions, he could do to uncounted other planets exactly what he has done to this one.”

Phlox stared at her indignantly.  “You and Mister Reed shared consciousness with this creature, and you still speak so lightly of wantonly _destroying_ it?”

“Doctor.”  Malcolm’s head had dropped back to the pillow.  His tousled black hair framed his face like a halo, lending him a resemblance to an ashen, avenging angel.  “I don’t make this suggestion _lightly._ I make it _because_ I shared consciousness with him – because I know to the last stop in the score what he’s capable of.  Don’t make the mistake of thinking this ploy of ours will work again.  He’s not some killing automaton.  He _learns._ ”

There was a small silence.

“Did you tell him what we were plannin’ to do if he reneged?” asked Trip, looking across at T'Pol’s slightly troubled expression.  She’d had a debriefing with the captain the day after the duel, but he’d been on duty in Engineering at the time so he wouldn’t be privy to the details.

“Yes.”

“So he spoke to you – and he was thinkin’ about it?  About breakin’ his word?”

“Yes.  I believe he was tempted.”

“You can’t execute him without trial for being ‘tempted’ to do something!” the doctor broke in angrily.  “What matters in the end is that he didn’t do it.  That he _kept_ his word!”

Her gaze transferred to the Denobulan instead.  “I believe, Doctor, that in essence this is the only trial it is safe for him to receive.”

Phlox sat back, resolving that if this was the case he was appointing himself Counsel for the Defense.  He still found it hard to believe that an act of such barbarity was even under discussion.

“You said he ‘learns’.”  The captain leaned forward, studying Malcolm closely.  “Have you any idea what he might have learned from his encounter with us?”

A crooked smile.  “Not to take on a Vulcan in a duel.”

A small smile in return, but it was brief; the matter was too serious for joking.  “Apart from that, Lieutenant.”

Reed considered.  “That we’re resourceful.  Determined.  Loyal.  Honest, within the appropriate limits.”

“And what would he have learned about _you?”_

The too-wide pupils contracted fractionally.  “That I’ve been taught how to resist interrogation.”

“And you’re a stubborn sonofabitch,”interjected Trip with a grin.

A nod.  “I’d like to think he got that impression.  I certainly tried hard enough to give it to him.”

“That you won’t use disrespectful language when it’s not appropriate.”  Archer’s eyes held a faint twinkle.  “Maybe one day you’ll tell me what ‘aheshle’ means.”

“I’d rather not, sir.”  He colored.  “I’m sorry.  I should have done more….”

“Malcolm.”  The captain laid a hand gently on his right arm, the one that wasn’t immobilized to allow the elbow joint to mend.  “I’m sure you did absolutely everything you could.  Forget about it.”

Looking at his patient’s marked pallor, against which the sudden flush of embarrassment stood out in painful contrast, Phlox thought to himself that if this order was meant literally, Captain Archer was being exceedingly optimistic.  The experience the lieutenant had undergone had left its marks on him mentally as well as physically, if he was any judge; the tactical officer would have to be monitored carefully during his recovery, and if he did not respond sufficiently well on both fronts, it was quite likely that a request would have to be forwarded to Starfleet for him to be recalled for psychological evaluation and treatment.

“I’m not sure where you’re goin’ with this, Cap’n,” said Trip quietly.  “What does it matter what he found out about us?”

“Well.  Malcolm says he’s capable of learning.  Perhaps, just perhaps, he may have learned something from us that might … I don’t know, perhaps he might have found out that there’s more to other species than just ‘prey.’”

Phlox’s frown cleared somewhat.  He’d begun to get the impression that the captain was actually trying to find reasons to kill Gyarven, a suspicion that had worried him deeply.  He had worked with humans for a great many years and thought he understood them reasonably well by now, but there were still some facets of their nature that eluded him; he knew, however, that some of them found the idea of having the power of life and death over others almost narcotic.  The thought that Captain Archer might be one of them – that he could have so grievously misread the nature of the man on whose ship he’d chosen to serve – had, for a moment, made him almost nauseous.

“I would regard that as a highly dubious proposition.”  T'Pol was sitting bolt upright.  A faint frown furrowed her brow.  “I have said from the start that I regard him as very dangerous.  I revise that opinion: I regard him as _exceptionally_ dangerous.

“His mental capacity is formidable.  His species evolved along the lines appropriate for the conditions on their planet, where a species was present that could be pressed into a form of symbiosis.  Whether this was morally correct is irrelevant; it happened, and it was evidently successful.  Unfortunately, the availability and presumably the docility of the ‘host’ species may have helped to hinder the moral development of Gyarven’s species.   They did not have to consider the rights and wrongs of the case.

“It is my belief that at this stage of his development, Gyarven is simply incapable of considering the rights of any other sentient being as having any parallel with his own.  His morality – his honesty, if you can call it that – is that of a gambler.  I would imagine it has roots in traditions on his home world where gambling was a survival technique.  He keeps his word because that is what his people do, not because it is a moral imperative in any other sense of the term.”

“Granted your reasoning, T'Pol, that is still not sufficient justification for killing him!” said Phlox hotly.

“Doctor.”  Lieutenant Reed’s voice was very soft, very quiet and very precise.  “When I shared that consciousness – when I was _under siege_ from it – I would have used any method available to me to put an end to it – yes, even if it meant killing myself in the process.  I don’t have the words to describe the horror I felt when I heard the captain put the entire crew at his mercy if the gamble failed.”

“Your desire was understandable, even laudable, at that point.  However, the circumstances have changed.  He no longer represents a threat to the ship, therefore there is no valid reason to kill him!”  The doctor stared at Trip, who had remained unhappily silent; he knew the chief engineer was a compassionate man.  “Commander, do _you_ have any opinion on this?”

Tucker cleared his throat.  “When all’s said an’ done, Doc, the two people with the most experience both vote against him.  And from what I saw of him, I wouldn’t say he’d be all that much of a loss.”  He looked down at his hands, clasped in his lap.  “There’s one alternative, though.”

“Which is?” asked the captain.

“Put a warnin’ beacon into orbit,” Trip answered briefly.  “Yeah, it won’t last forever, but maybe he won’t either.  That device is over two thousand years old.  Might be wearin’ out, for all we know.  An’ maybe the next ship to arrive won’t take any notice of the warnin’, might not even bother tryin’ to decipher it, but if so that’s the risk _they_ take.  Gyarven gave us a chance, I guess we owe him one in return.”

“‘No more, no less.’”  Archer exhaled.  “Opinions, everyone?”

“It would be justice, after a fashion,” admitted T'Pol, after a pause.  “From what he said to me afterwards I am not sure Gyarven truly believed your offer was genuine, Captain; thankfully, we will never know whether he had the power to force you to keep your side of the bargain, had it fallen due.  I certainly believe that he had the power to mount a strong attack to gain control of me, but he seemed more … curious than anything else.”  Though she hadn’t forgotten the sinister discovery he’d made through that curiosity: what an excellent food-source a powerful Vulcan mind would be. Determinedly suppressing a shiver at the memory, she went on, “And with your permission, Captain, I shall be submitting a full report to the Vulcan Science Directorate.  It might even be possible, given time, to find some way to simulate the ‘charge’ upon which Gyarven’s species feeds by some artificial means.  If so, that would obviate the need for his life of predation.”

“I concur,” said Phlox promptly.  It made sense, though it was certainly to be hoped anyone intending to propose the solution to Gyarven found some way to communicate indirectly with him, just in case the offer didn’t appeal.

The captain considered this. 

There was silence from the direction of the bio-bed.  Its occupant stared at the captain, lips compressed.

“Malcolm?” the captain queried at last, very gently.

“I’ve made my position clear, sir.”  His condition might be preventing him from standing to attention, but in every way but the actual physical one the ship’s tactical officer was stiffly awaiting orders.

Archer paused for a long moment.

“You’re the ship’s tactical officer, Lieutenant.  If you have anything further to add I’d be glad to hear it.”

“Captain, may I interrupt?” asked Phlox, as Reed opened his mouth to answer.  The Englishman closed it again, looking annoyed.

“If it’s important, yes.” 

“With the greatest respect to Mister Reed, I am not sure that he is in a position right now to offer his usual balanced view of events.  He is still suffering from considerable physical and emotional trauma, as well as having a significant amount of analgesic in his system.”  The doctor met the gray glare serenely.  “I am sorry, Lieutenant, but my duty is as plain as yours.  The captain needs not only to have advice, but to be kept informed of how much reliance he should place on it.”

“Sir.  I’m as certain as I can be that my attitude is not unduly influenced by what I went through, except insofar as it gave me more insight than anyone else into exactly what that bastard down there is capable of.” Reed colored momentarily at the language his agitation had impelled him to use, but didn’t retract it.  “I advise without qualification that in my opinion our plain duty is to ensure nobody else ever has to endure what I did – and that what happened to the Arinx never happens to anyone else.”

There was a long silence.

“I don’t for a moment imply that you’re wrong, Malcolm,” Archer said at last.  “As a matter of fact, you’re probably right.  But the fact remains that whatever Gyarven is, he’s the last of them.  Maybe that’s a good thing, maybe it’s a bad thing, but it’s a _fact._ You never know, maybe the Vulcans might come up with that alternative and he might choose to take advantage of it.  And if not, I’m not sure that given a few hundred years to think over what he learned from us, he’s completely incapable of redemption.”  He glanced at Trip.  “Get that beacon prepped ready for launch.  I’m not qualified to play God.”


	19. Chapter 19

The sturdy shape of the warning beacon flew from the launch tube without a hitch.  Within moments it had settled into the orbit it would follow from now on.  Its operating lights blinked serenely as it sailed away from the ship.

Malcolm stepped back from the Tactical Station without a word.  He watched the beacon disappear, his face pale and set.

“All circuits functioning normally,” reported T'Pol.  “It is programmed with twenty of the most commonly used languages in the database as well as several dozen mathematical constructs that each point to the outcome of termination.”

“Well, I think we’re about done here.”  Captain Archer sat back in his chair.  “Malcolm, I believe you’re under orders to report back to Sickbay as soon as this was done.”

“Yeah.  And I’m here to make sure he does.”  Trip had been standing beside the doorway to the Ready Room; his arms were crossed, his blue eyes watchful.

Across the Bridge, Hoshi’s face was almost as pale as Malcolm’s, but she said nothing.

“Reporting to Sickbay as ordered, Captain.”  The English voice held no expression, only an intense weariness.  With Trip in close attendance, he walked towards the turbo-lift.  Only the fact that the physical act of launching the beacon might be a small step towards restoring him mentally had reconciled Phlox to his being allowed out of Sickbay at all, and he still moved slowly and stiffly, hunched over his bandaged chest.

The captain caught Hoshi’s eye and gave a rapid jerk of his head.

She rose quickly from the comm station and was just in time to reach her lover as the lift door hissed open.

Archer saw him step inside, Trip close behind like a protective shadow.  Hoshi stood in front of him, her lovely face as tender as a Madonna’s; her hands touched him gently.

Malcolm’s head drooped slowly, and came to rest on her shoulder.

And the lift door closed behind them.

 

**Author's Note:**

> All reviews received with gratitude!


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